Sempiternal Belligerence
by Calathiel of Mirkwood
Summary: I knew protocol. And I knew it did not include eavesdropping on the monarchs of Narnia. But it wasn't necessarily eavesdropping if the monarchs did not heed who stood around them when conversing. Chapter 15 up
1. Night Watch

Welcome to my first posted Narnia fic. I hope you all enjoy it!

**A/N:** A little explanation as to the title. It stems from two totally amazing words.

Sempiternal:  
Of never ending duration; having beginning but no end; everlasting; endless.

Belligerence:

1. a warlike or aggressively hostile nature, condition, or attitude.

2. an act of carrying on war; warfare.

And now...

**Sempiternal Belligerence--**

Cair Paravel.

A glimmering beacon of radiance by day. A glowing effusion of warmth by night.

It was considered a true honor to serve the Kings and Queens of Narnia in their golden palace. And I, Scipio, was no exception. My family was one of the most highly respected in my clan, partly due to my status in the palace.

I am part of the night watch for the Kings' and Queens' bedchambers and I have been for several years now, ever since the White Witch's defeat at the Battle of Beruna.

Tonight, a young faun, barely come of age, was joining our ranks. No one needed to point him out as we gathered to receive our assignments for the watches. The poor little thing was trembling with excitement.

He and I were given the honor of watching the High King's chamber, something that sent the new recruit near giddiness. At one point, I thought his face might split from the massive grin on his face.

We arrived at out post. I solemnly took my place on the right side of the great oaken door and the faun tripped over himself to reach the left side.

He had as much energy as a schoolboy, hopping from one hoof to the other, as we waited for the High King to return from banquet.

The King had recently returned from a battle in the North, suppressing a fierce conflict that threatened the peace of a small dwarven settlement. The two Queens had taken great care to plan much celebration upon his victorious arrival. Even from where we stood, several levels and rooms away, we could hear the faint strains of music, the trill of laughter, and the enticing scents wafting from the main Hall.

I suspected that the feasting and merriment would last well into the night. Something my companion had not thought of, if one judged by his excited twitching.

I would have mentioned my thoughts on the hour of the King's return when heavy, measured footsteps echoed down the hallway at that very moment. To my surprise it was none other than the High King himself.

He approached slowly, shoulders drooped and a hand pressed to his side. When he saw us he straightened imperceptibly but did not move his hand. As he came close, he bestowed a weary smile towards us and in a soft voice asked, "How are you this evening, Scipio?"

"Well, my lord. And yourself?"

The King's eyes flickered from the bedchamber door then back to my own eyes. "Well enough." The same thin smile stretched across his face.

If he had been any other, I would have frowned. The dark half moons under his eyes and the lack of color to his cheeks proved an excellent rebuttal to his claim of health. But it was not my place to challenge the High King.

The King set a hand on the door knob before he caught sight of my companion. His brow creased, obviously searching his memory for a name and finally accepting defeat. "I don't believe we have met."

"I'm called Caden, my lord." The faun squeaked.

I fought a smile remembering how I, too, had cowed in the presence of the High King. Thought he was young he carried with him an aura of power and confidence. Magnificence was a mantle he filled well.

"A pleasure to meet you, Caden. I would speak with you longer but the day has been long and I fear that I shall soon fall asleep on my feet."

I saw the flicker in his blue eyes and knew something was amiss. Knowing I was likely overstepping my bounds but fearing for my liege, I spoke, "Shall I send for a surgeon, majesty?"

"A surgeon, Scipio? Why on earth would you do that?"

I wanted to say, 'because you are unwell, my lord', but I held my tongue.

"I'm perfectly hale." He turned the handle and took a step inside his bedroom before looking back at us. "If Ed should come asking for me…tell him that I'm in the gardens getting some fresh air."

"Yes, my lord."

Then, he bade us goodnight and disappeared behind the door's panels.

The night was quiet and the hours passed slowly. Caden finally began to settle into the dull passage of time and gradually he ceased his nervous hopping.

I wager it was half after the eleventh hour when footsteps heralded another monarch headed our way. And if my instincts served me well it would be King Edmund approaching.

As expected, a dark haired young man rounded the corner, an expression bordering on fury firmly marking his face. He headed straight for King Peter's room.

"Scipio, has my brother come this way?"

"I believe he is in the gardens, my liege." I recited dutifully.

King Edmund dissolved into low, angry grumblings. Then, something clicked into place and suddenly his gaze snapped up to meet mine. "The gardens?" His tone expressed my earlier doubts perfectly.

"Yes, my lord."

"Right." He nodded and barreled past Caden and myself, forcing the High King's bedchamber door open.

Caden looked as though his jaw was brushing the floor. "Scipio…but…the King, can he do that?"

I merely stared out into the night, tightening my grasp on my sword. Caden was torn for while, no doubt unsure of whether to intervene or to let it be. Finally, he sighed heavily, shifted, and was still.

Initially, there was no noise at all coming from the bedchamber. The night was peaceful and calm, the twinkling stars and moon bathing the hallway in a pale, silvery light. But ever so faintly, voices began to reach our ears, growing in volume.

I knew protocol. And I knew it did not include eavesdropping on the monarchs of Narnia. But it wasn't necessarily eavesdropping if the monarchs did not heed who stood around them when conversing.

Surreptitiously, I couldn't help but shift the slightest bit closer to the doorway, catching a few more of the words spoken.

"I'm fine, Ed. I'm tired, that's all. Quit being such a worry wort." The High King's voice was easily discerned.

But what could only be King Edmund's reply was muffled.

"Really, Ed, it's nothing! Ed! Cut it out!"

There was a loud 'bang' and the moaning of furniture being shoved around. A few loud yelps and an occasional "Ed!" erupted from the room. I felt another smile tug at my lips. The High King's health was in good hands.

Caden threw me a glance that revealed he felt entirely the opposite about the situation. "Shouldn't we…shouldn't we go to the High King's aid?"

I started to answer him but was interrupted by yet another clamor of footsteps. This time it was the two Queens that rounded the corner. They both appeared nervous but Queen Susan was even a bit frustrated.

"In here?" She asked once they came to the door.

"Yes, my lady."

They entered quietly and while the door was ajar for them to pass through Caden and I received a small glance of the commotion within.

The High King, dressed in a loose tunic and trousers, was holding his side protectively and brandishing a pillow in the other hand to ward of King Edmund who was positively fuming. Queen Susan shook her head derisively before the door shut and the four were blocked from sight.

Caden was on the verge of running after them. I stayed him with a firm look. "We do not interfere."

His spirit deflated like a sail with no wind to power it. He had wanted to prove himself through the defense of his liege. I almost told him that the High King was in no danger with his siblings but thought better of it.

Caden would discover that on his own. Besides, the night proved to be a long ordeal. It would certainly give him something to mull over.

The voices rose again, and the words became clear.

"What is it this time?" Queen Susan's smooth tones were laced with pity and a vague sense of disgust.

Queen Lucy was far less calm about the ordeal. "Peter! You said they hadn't hurt you!"

"I'm not hurt, Lu. It's nothing."

"It is too something! You can't keep your hand off your side for more than five seconds!" King Edmund added his observations emphatically. But then again, when it came to the High King's health…the surgeons couldn't get him to admit even a headache.

"Shall I fetch my cordial, Edmund?"

"That's not necessary. That cordial is worse that any hangover when you've got it down. Besides, it's not that bad! Nothing to fuss about!"

"Last time you said that you had practically cracked your skull open!"

And it was true. Cair Paravel was in uproar when, in trying to save a young minotaur from pitching into a river, the High King had leapt from his horse and suffered a blow to the head in the rescue. He brushed off their concerns with a merry smile, saying that all was as sound as it had ever been, and within two minutes of remounting his horse had promptly passed out.

"Well, this time it's true. It's nothing." The High King's tone was defensive in gentle terms.

Queen Susan would have none of it. But then she was never fooled for long by anything. "Then why won't you let us see it?"

There was a long pause. "Because."

Apparently, the younger King's patience had snapped for he exclaimed, "That's it, Pete!"

An amazing cacophony of stomping, crashing, banging, and muffled hollering flitted through the wood. Caden looked as though he might faint. Finally, the door was thrown open, a flushed Queen Lucy holding the door open for Queen Susan and King Edmund to pull a grunting High King Peter to the threshold.

"What's it to be, Pete? Shall I send for the surgeon or shall we continue to drag you to him ourselves?" King Edmund's voice was strained and I was reminded that the High King was a force to be reckoned with, injured or no.

"Ed," King Peter gave a violent jerk, and winced when his own strength jostled his side.

King Edmund's anger weakened and he turned wearily to me. "Scipio, fetch the surgeon, won't you?"

"As quickly as I am able." And I kept my promise, moving swiftly down the halls. No more than ten minutes had passed before I was returning the way I had come with a surgeon, still wiping the sleep from his eyes.

Queen Susan was the first to spot us and her beautiful face melted into relief. She met us several yards from the bedroom, long silken skirts swishing pleasantly. "Peter is in his room."

She led the surgeon in and I caught a fleeting glimpse of the bedchamber until the door clicked shut. Queen Lucy was perched on the bed next to the High King, her hand in his, telling him animatedly about something. Edmund sat close to the bed, a pensive expression on his face. The High King himself was pale and there was a spot the size of plump apple on the side of his tunic shining bright crimson.

All I had been allowed was a glimpse, a glimpse that Caden, too, had seen. "I'm so glad you are back," he breathed.

I gave him a curious stare. What on earth could possibly have happened? I was not gone for long.

"The High King, he tried to run off but King Edmund caught him. The two wrestled like I have never seen before. It was then that King Edmund said something, something about the Battle of Beruna I think, and the High King stopped fighting him. He went still and they helped him get into bed. He's been lying there ever since." Caden's face was white and his eyes were wide.

There was talk long ago that the High King had almost been defeated by the White Witch and that King Edmund would be dead if not for the cordial in Queen Lucy's possession. I had not been there to see for myself but perhaps there was something to the rumors after all.

No matter now. My companion was about to work himself into a frenzy. Best placate his nerves before they unraveled completely. "High King Peter has always been fit. He'll be well in no time." I assured him.

"Then," he glanced to the door and back at me, "things of this nature…happen often?"

I stopped fighting the smile that had been pricking at my lips all night. "His Majesty does not relish being the center of his family's fussing. He would much rather prefer to conceal certain things to protect them, as it were, from what he deems unnecessary strain."

Caden's "oh" was softer than a young bird's fluffy down feathers. "And the King will recover?"

"As surely as the sun will rise."

The High King did indeed recover and was back to his magnificent self shortly. However, with a personality such as the King's, the nighttime 'interrogations' remained routine. The High King continued to hide hurts and his family, ever keen, continued to find them out.

Caden eventually became used to the loud escapades and several months later, when a group of dignitaries were visiting, the same scene was replayed. Caden didn't even flinch.

The dignitaries approached their bedchamber's cautiously as if the shouting and smashing of furniture roaring from the High King's bedchamber might suddenly explode and envelope them, too.

I readied myself for the recitation prepared for occasions such as these when, to my utmost surprise, Caden cut in smoothly, "Not to worry, my lords. It's merely a weekly drill. The King requires it."

The dignitaries blinked owlishly and left for their chambers, leaving us with an empty hallway. Both Caden and I smiled as the room erupted in another bout of ruckus.

"Edmund! It's not that bad! Hardly fatal!"

"Hardly fatal? By Aslan's mane, Peter!"

Cair Paravel slept well that night, knowing that all was as it should be.

**The End.**

Reviews are much appreciated!


	2. Kitchen Maid

Wow! I had no idea so many people would enjoy this so much! Thank you so much to all the reviewers! You guys have no idea how many smiles you brought to my face! KCS, Cirolane, Princess in the Pea, Narnian Lily, Sentimental Star, LaurenWinchester, jdeppgirl4, Window2MySoul, ilysia, Sedri, GoGothGirl, diff-r-ent-1, liz22463, Eve Royal, Ilada'Jefiv, Siriusly Loopy, rolletti, purple kimono, and Chance2--Thank you!!

rolletti--this is dedicated to you. :) Without you, this would never have made it to completion. I hope it lives up to your expectations!

Disclaimer: (since I forgot it earlier) I don't own Narnia or the characters in this fic.

And onto the story! Enjoy!

**Chapter 2: Kitchen Maid**

It was the strangest mixture. Chocolate, a vile thing if one asked her, and milk. And not only were the two mixed until they formed a deep brown, the concoction was then heated. Heated!

In Mellia's village, milk was a rarity and one would never dream of spoiling such a precious item by heating it. But she had been informed multiple times, in the strictest of terms, that it was considered a delicacy in Spare Oom and under no circumstances was she to insult the Kings and Queens of Narnia by turning up her little badger nose at their drink.

Mellia had become used to bringing the monarchs the drink during the icy Narnian winters. They were always polite, smiling and nodding their thanks. She'd return about an hour later and, without fail, the cups were empty and gathered nicely on a table.

The action had become so routine that tonight the Kings and Queens had not even called for the hot chocolate, as they called it. Nevertheless the drink had been prepared, Mellia summoned, and now she moved down the hallways towards the High King's study.

Shifting the weight of the tray to one paw, Mellia lifted the other to rap on the heavy wooden door when a raised voice from inside caught her attention.

"Ed!"

Mellia moved back a step.

"You and your infernal wits! Give it a chance! It'll work!"

Perhaps she could return later with their hot chocolate. After all, they hadn't called for it yet. Although, a different part of her reasoned that she couldn't possibly return to the kitchen with the untouched mugs. Cailn, the head cook, would have a fit.

"Think about it, Pete. Nobody wants this marriage. It'll only give the feud fresh flame."

"How else are they going to agree on anything if they don't get married?"

Mellia instinctively looked for a place to hide. She couldn't just stand here, shuffling from one paw to the other. What if someone walked by? It was painfully obvious that she was eavesdropping on a conversation about matters of state.

The highest ruler of the land had to approve any marriage of nobility. And quite clearly, the discussed marriage was causing division amongst the two kings. If she was correct in the first two respects then they were indeed discussing affairs of importance to the kingdom.

Such debates on imperative matters should not be listened in on, especially crouching and shifting like she was a vagabond begging for loose scraps. She repositioned the tray and turned away from the door. Mayhap she could find a few stray fauns that might choke down the Spare Oom delicacy. That would free her to return to the kitchen with the hope that the monarchs would not call for usual round of hot chocolate.

However, the next sentence halted her movements as surely and swiftly as the White Witch's wand would have.

"Pete, the skunks and the badgers haven't lived together for over one hundred years. One marriage will not mend all the rifts in such a situation."

Mellia's heart beat faster. She'd known about the rivalry between the races since she was as small as her papa's left paw. If they were indeed discussing the laboriously debated marriage between skunk and badger nobility, then it was in her and her family's interest to listen in, no matter how it might twist her stomach to do so.

"Bullar is one of the most prominent badgers in Narnia. If he agrees to marry a skunk bride then how many others will follow his example?"

Mellia, cheeks flushing under her smooth fur, set the tray down with barely a clink of crockery and pressed her ear against the door to better hear the reply.

"One marriage is not going to provoke an effusion of good will, no matter the parties involved."

King Edmund, if she judged the smooth voices accurately, was not interested in approving the marriage. Mellia couldn't say she disagreed with him either. In a schism this deep, no single matrimony would solve the issues.

"Peter," a new voice, one smooth and sweet, entered the conversation. "I think he's right. This marriage was a valiant effort by Bullar to mend the rivalry but it will solve nothing, save to condemn a young skunk to an unhappy marriage."

Queen Susan, then, was in the room as well.

"What makes you think she rues the marriage so?"

"She has never given her consent. Her family has, after Bullar gave them a considerable plot of land, but she has never agreed."

At that moment, Mellia heard something she never thought she might hear the infallible High utter, not even if all the armies of Narnia stood against him. He cursed, violently.

Two voices immediately cried, "Peter!"

"Well, I can't say I like the situation anymore than you two!"

A pause from within before Queen Susan spoke softly, "Ed, why don't you go check on Lucy. She's doing her sums again."

Mellia's spine stiffened. What would they think of her now? Caught, wide-eyed and red-pawed with no reason whatsoever for her snooping. She'd be punished for certain. Snatching up the tray, she debated the virtue of entering now and acting as though she had not heard anything.

Yet, what would she say? Her fur was ruffled in agitation and her eyes were no doubt a clear indication to her guilt.

The door handle turned, grating slightly as the tumblers rotated.

Blowing out a slight breath, she snatched up the tray—careful to prevent the glasses from spilling—and glanced about for a place, anywhere, to conceal herself until the Just King had passed by.

A loud click informed her that the door was being pulled open just as she stepped behind a veil of thick woolen curtains. King Edmund's slim form stepped to the hallway and closed the door.

His dark head bowed and he sighed heavily, as if a weight were pressing down on his shoulders. With long, measured footsteps, he disappeared down the hallway that was darkening in the fading sunlight.

Mellia's throat was dry as she slunk back in front of the door, tray still in hand. She reminded herself that this was for her family. They would be proud indeed to have heard about this before anyone else. This was not eavesdropping. There wasn't anything to drop.

The Queen's voice was low, barely audible, and ridden with dejection. "What's wrong, Peter?"

"What do you mean?"

"You've snapped at Ed all day, and you refused to help Lucy with her lessons. We both know that's not like you."

A long pause filled the air and Mellia wondered if they were moving towards the door as well. That thought sent terror down through her tail. Two pairs of eyes were better than one pair. They would surely spot her.

Just as she began to back away, the High King spoke. "It's this cursed headache. I can't seem to get rid of it."

"Pete…" Mellia never thought she'd hear the Gentle Queen make such a primal…growl.

"Su, it's not what you think. Honestly. I just need more sleep. And less unsolvable treaties like this badger-beaver mess."

"Skunks."

"What?"

"The marriage agreement. It's between the badgers and the skunks."

"Right."

"Peter, you need to sleep."

Mellia had heard that tone before. She'd used herself many a time when her siblings became usually rowdy and needed quieting before bed. It was a mixture of firm chiding and soothing care.

"I'm fine. I'll just finish this first." The High King's words were determined though his tone was not.

The Queen sighed resignedly. "Shall I call for hot chocolate?"

Those two words sent Mellia's gaze shooting down to the mugs. They couldn't call for it now, and the cook would ask what she'd been doing. Then she would have to explain why she listened in.

She trusted the monarchs of the land…she was merely curious.

That left her with one choice. She gulped, feeling the wetness of her saliva slide down her throat like sandpaper, and rapped on the wood.

The door grated open and the Gentle Queen's serene face and dark locks came into view. "Yes?" Beyond her, the High King was hunched over a desk piled high with papers. He did indeed look weary.

"I-I've brought…" her voice failed her.

"Oh, thank you. Put it on the table there." The Queen gestured to a table between two plush chairs.

Mellia did so as fast as her short legs would allow. The tray settled with a loud 'clang' and she turned, bowing.

The two monarchs granted her with a thin smile, and returned to their work. Mellia scampered out without another noise. This was a night she'd rather not explain to anyone, be they her family or not.

The two lords and ladies of the land were certainly doing their best to ensure safety and happiness in the kingdom. She would let them be and be satisfied to bring them their dainties. And maybe it would ease their burdens.

Smiling for the first time since she'd been given the tray, she started to patter down the hallway but the High King's words once again followed her as she made her way to the kitchen.

"Su?" His voice conveyed confusion. "Isn't the hot chocolate usually warmer than this?"

**Fin**


	3. Master Bookkeeper

Thank you so much to reviewers Arquenniel, FireSenshi2, rolletti, and KCS!! :) I love reading your comments!

FireSenshi2--This is for you. I hadn't seriously considered another part. Your comment gave me the slight nudge I needed to start thinking up a new one. So, thank you and I hope you enjoy!

A/N: Well, this story is slowly growing in size and turning into a inside peek into Cair Paravel's four monarchs' lives. I do have a few ideas for more little 'drabbles' like this. Each drabble would be from a different point of view in the palace. So, if you wouldn't mind, please tell me if you'd like me to continue.

**Chapter 3: Master Bookkeeper**

Books were amongst the greatest inventions of life. They contained knowledge collected over lifetimes and then stored them on cool white pages in smooth black ink. There was something definitive about them, the firm lines so carefully formed, the phrases meticulously fashioned.

And Wittiner considered it is honor to be the guardian of the largest library in Narnia, the Royal Records at Cair Paravel.

The little fox had spent hours assiduously arranging the tomes by category first and then alphabetically by title. All dust particles were swept from the dark wooden shelves with a downy handkerchief so that the brass category plaques glowed in the candlelight.

All in all, the library was a cocoon of knowledge in the very heart of Cair Paravel.

Wittiner had insisted upon such placement. Cool and dry as to protect the pages from mildew. Illumination by candles to prevent the book covers from fading, therefore losing their luster and outer beauty.

He'd been named master bookkeeper just days after the Kings and Queens coronation. Now, three years later, after spending days pouring over small lettering under candlelight, he had been reluctant to receive one downside to his position.

Spectacles.

He'd been reduced to perching a pair of spectacles on his slim nose to view those wonderful words. The four monarchs had been most kind to gift him with a pair that were rimmed in gold and had a lovely chain to keep them about his neck. But the shame of wearing spectacles with relatives such as his was humiliating.

After all, foxes were said to have the eyesight that rivaled eagles or griffons. Yet, his position was one of great importance and, despite his optical shortcomings, the literary volumes would receive their due care.

Today he had a pile of books that was twice the length of his tail to replace on the shelves and a fresh crate of new books from Calormen to unpack and categorize. Often categorization included a hot cup of beechnut tea and a long afternoon in his favorite chair.

He had just lifted the first tome from the opening of the crate and was brushing away the grass stuffing from the exquisite covers when he heard the patter of feet.

Assuming it to be the approach of the kitchen maid with his tea he remained set on his task, plucking the golden strands from the pages he surveyed gold-inked title "Reflections on Other Worlds". It sounded promising enough.

Following a thorough reading, he would know for certain but at the moment he suspected the book would end up in fiction, likely amongst the wilder and more fanatical tales. Traveling from other worlds was not possible in any sense of the phrase.

A raised voice, however, comprehensively squashed any thought of fantastical traveling.

"Ed, I'm going to kill you!"

Wittiner blinked. Well, that was a rather violent remark. Although he had yet to meet one named Ed, it must have been one of those contemptible chimney squirrels. Always whining and hollering and tracking fine black powder all over his impeccably maintained books.

Such a thing simply wouldn't do.

He dropped down to all four paws and pattered towards the fireplace by the entry to stem the tide of obsidian smoke. One never knew when a dignitary might come to inspect the Narnian stores of written knowledge.

Rounding the corner, he saw two blurs of dark fabric and then suddenly the world was spinning. A slight clatter of metal was picked out amongst the horrendous crashing of furniture. The quiet noise became clear when Wittiner blinked and the world remained a soft blur of colors and shapes.

His spectacles. He'd dropped his spectacles.

Feeling about as clumsily as a giddy faun who'd consumed too many drinks, he felt for the cool metal of his spectacles along the wooden floor when a harsh sentence shot through the air.

"Pete, it was nothing! Just a bit of fun!"

"Oh, a bit of fun, is it? I'll show you a bit of fun!"

A tremor shook the room and if it was not for the scraping of chairs raking across the beautiful wooden floors Wittiner would have thought there was an earthquake. Only a moment later a chorus of thumps brought his head snapping up.

That was a sound he'd know anywhere. His books! Those scoundrels were ruining his books! First, the glossy flooring and now his precious books.

Reaching out in an ever widening circle, he felt about for his spectacles and when he found them a spark of anger welled in his throat. The feeling of smooth, and mercifully unbroken, glass brought a renewed sense of ownership.

This was his library given to him by monarchs crowned by Aslan himself and Wittiner would face a whole army before he'd let a pair of sooty squirrels muss the irreplaceable tomes.

He pursed his lips and prepared his heated speech to send the little troublemakers packing. Wittiner replaced his eyeglasses to their intended spot and purpose and nearly lost them an instant later.

For running around in the center of room like a pair of wet bobcats was not chimney squirrels at all but King Edmund with High King Peter in angered pursuit.

"Ed! I'm warning you!" The High King was not only scrambling after him in a manner as dignified as a plucked chicken but he was doused from the top of his blonde head to mid waist in—from the spicy aromas that filled Wittiner's pointed nose—thick gravy.

"Take it easy, Peter!" King Edmund feigned left towards a low table and instead cut hard to the right, sending the High King crashing after him over a thick wooden chair.

"You've got some real guts!" The High King's voice was strained, undoubtedly from the oaken chair he'd just barreled over, but horrendously loud.

In fact, Wittiner was unaware that a human's voice could handle such volumes. But apparently, High King Peter's vocal talent was not a rarity among his kind.

"It wasn't like I dumped you out of your chair in front of an entire room of nobles!" King Edmund was hollering over his shoulder, heedless of the books he was knocking from their shelves in his escape.

"I told you! That was unintentional!"

Wittiner actually cringed as King Edmund screeched to a halt and neatly bumped an unlit lamp to the floor. Shattered glass flew across the floor but neither monarch paid it any attention.

"Unintentional! As unintentional as your salty wine at supper!" The dark-haired king's finger jabbed into the High King's velvet tunic with vicious decisiveness.

"Ha! You admit tampering with my wine! Now admit the gravy bit!"

"The minute you admit dumping me out of that chair!"

With a feral snarl, the High King leapt. Wittiner winced. His poor books…

The two monarchs crashed through a row of bookcases, disappearing amongst the fluttering of torn pages. They immediately scrambled to stand, footing uneven on the battered literary terrain, and dove for each other again with hands curled into fists.

The High King had King Edmund in a strangle hold, though King Edmund was getting several hard hits to the High King's stomach as repayment, when Wittiner decided intervention was imperative if he wished his library to remain in tact.

"Excuse me."

King Edmund spun, forcing the High King to release his hold or wrench his wrist in a rather painful position, and tried to leap back. The High King moved faster and once more pinned the younger king to the wooden flooring.

Apparently a more direct means was necessary.

Wittiner's legs propelled him up onto the remains of a bookcase overlooking the Kings' continued wrestling match. "Excuse me!"

At last, two sets of human eyes turned on him, one bright blue and the other deep brown.

Miraculously, Wittiner's resolve did not falter. He straightened his back to face them fully and exclaimed in a shocked tone, "Your majesties, this is a place of learning, a place of quiet solitude where one may enrich his or her mind, not a stable ground for a wrestling match.

He took a step forward. "Those books that you so negligently trampled with your reckless juvenile abandonment are precious preservers of knowledge in Narnia. Now, collect yourselves and set this room to rights."

The two straightened gradually, shifting tunics back into place and guiltily shuffling from foot to foot. They waited only a moment before a firm look from Wittiner sent them towards cleaning up the damaged library.

While they were lifting a bookcase and replacing the once neatly arranged volumes, Wittiner realized something. Oh Aslan's mane…

Had he just reprimanded the two Kings of Narnia?

Suddenly, the library swam in a dizzying eddy of colors as he patted his forehead with his paw. He needed his cup of tea…

**Fin**


	4. The Gardener

Thank you so much to reviewers Arquenniel, Autumnia, imakeladrygirl, Padawan Jan-AQ, .life, Bookworm, jc, rolletti, 7Kyuubi7, KCS, Golden Ashes, Window2MySoul, barelypassing4sane, and LunaNigra!

**A/N:** Thank you also for your reponse to my question about whether I should write more drabbles. And yes, I planning on writing several more. :) So, thanks again! Finally, I do apologize about the lateness of this chapter. I recently moved and just when I got things in order, school started. Ah, life!

Anonymous Reviewer Replies:

bookworm: Thank you so much for the review! Wittiner had me giggling, too. Something about a fox in spectacles protecting his books... :)

jc: Thanks very much for the review! Its so much fun to think about what the Pevensies would be like to other people. Even though they are royalty, they're also kids. :)

**Chapter 4: The Gardener**

Cair Paravel was known far and wide for its grand expanses of carefully tended gardens. Herbs of every kind, flower beds of every variety and color, and the finest fruit trees on the west side of the seas.

And Eoyass was the caretaker of the south-eastern region of the gardens.

She'd always preferred working in the rain to working in the sunshine, despite the damp sheen that coated her needles for days afterwards. For in the rain, the plants showed their true colors, and it was breathtaking.

The blossoms opened and the bright heads lifted to catch the cool droplets of water. The herbs straightened, their savory scents threading into the patter of rainfall. The dirt was receptive to the wet freshness, loosening to accept the changes the gardener might nurture.

Not only were the plants and soil ideal for working, the gardens were always empty. The knights and lords left their entertainment for a warm fire and the King Edmund introduced game of chess. The ribbon bedecked courtiers ran for cover and the pages sought shelter under the wide awnings by the stables.

It was then that Eoyass would venture in bliss throughout the plant filled garden, inhaling the clean scents.

For a hedgehog wasn't bothered one whit over rain. She had never understood the game of chess—her good cousin had tried, without success, to teach her the miserable game. She had no ribbons or fine satins to keep safe. She had no rose oil scented love letters or armed forces memorandums to deliver.

And so she was free to tend the foliage in the solitude of a rainstorm.

Today, she was pleased to venture out into a clear spring rain. Feeling the fresh shower of rain, she pattered towards a bed of snowdrops that needed a bit of care.

To her utter delight, she was greeted by a fresh blanket of pure white blossoms just opening to catch the water-diluted rays of sunshine.

Eoyass held out a gnarled paw and brushed a crystal droplet of water gathering on the tip of a petal, as smooth and as pure as any of the satin hiding in the walls of the palace. Yet this satin didn't flee from the rain, it reveled in it.

She breathed a swift thanks to Aslan for the new day and set about checking the wide bed of flowers for unwanted green guests.

She'd accumulated a pile of weeds reaching the tip of a rosebud twice her height when a whimper, followed in quick succession by a sniffle, transferred her attention from her task to what other creature could possibly be out in the rain.

The sounds appeared to be coming from near the petunias—a new addition to the garden Eoyass had personally seen to.

Eoyass had a gentle heart, but it was thought that she might loose the freshly transplanted blossoms that sent her around the lily pond and peeking past the lilac bushes to see a crumpled satin-clad form right in the middle of the tender plants.

Feeling an overwhelming urge to pinch her nose at the ruined work, she cleared her throat and moved closer. Two bright blue eyes stared back up at her in a round face dusted with freckles. Eoyass noticed something as the pair of azure eyes widened.

It was either the strangest centaur she'd ever seen or this…this was one of the daughters of Eve and therefore a Queen of Narnia.

However, now didn't seem like the time to bow and exchange pleasantries. Judging by the redness in her eyes and the unnatural water streaking her cheeks, Eoyass wondered if this daughter of Eve had been weeping.

"Oh! Oh my!" the Queen scrambled to her feet, squashing more and more of the delicate petals. "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean-I mean your garden is lovely." She sniffed, tried to take a breath, and wept anew.

"Your highness, shall I call for your sister? Or your brother, perhaps?"

"No, no," the small daughter of Eve managed between hiccupping sobs. "I'm well."

"Your highness…" Eoyass paw brushed the edge of the trowel she held. "I do believe you are unwell." For Aslan's sake, the Queen's cheeks were as crimson as a begonia.

"I'm fine…it's just this-" The words were drowned in a harsh sob.

Eoyass set her tools carefully on the side of the walking path and took a ginger step towards the weeping monarch. She knew how to coax a tender sapling up from the earth, or even to persuade a naiad from the depths of a pond, but she was embarrassingly inexpert about sons of Adam and daughters of Eve, especially sons of Adam or daughters of Eve who wept.

Yet a young sapling and a timid naiad both had one action that comforted in common. A gentle hand stayed many fears. Perhaps, with a daughter of Eve it was the same.

In that grove of thought, Eoyass reached out awkwardly, stood fully on her hind legs, and patted the trembling arm closest to her. The two bright eyes, round and damp, once more fixated on the hedgehog.

"I am dreadfully sorry." The young Queen sniffed and valiantly straightened her shoulders. "I had no intent to disturb you. It's merely…oh, bother. I do wish I could stop blubbering." She rubbed at her cheeks, trying to dry her tears with the edge of her rain-soaked sleeve.

Eoyass waited for the daughter of Eve to compose herself. Any gardener knew that a plant could not be prodded and poked at constantly. There were times for acting straight away to correct and there were times to wait carefully for the outcome and then ascertain what was to be done. This was a time for waiting.

A full minute passed before the Queen managed to choke out, "Pete and Ed are going to renegotiate a new treaty on the southern border and, well, it's just that, I don't want them to leave." Yet another broken sob conquered her voice.

"Your highness… I wouldn't worry about your brothers." Eoyass easily recalled the tales she'd heard under a willow tree by the gate from a few of soldiers who'd trained with the two Kings. "My friends say they have the swiftest, surest swords within one hundred miles."

"That's exactly what Su said," Her little hands curled around her waist as her shoulders rose and fell in a pitiful, shaky sigh.

In the moment where the young Queen's eyes were cast down to the damp earth, Eoyass recognized a glint of apprehension in the expressive face.

Queen Lucy was frightened, frightened by change. Even though Eoyass knew so little about the ways of sons of Adam and the daughters of Eve, she knew a good bit about change. The timing had to be precise, the care meticulous, or the entire project would be in vain.

Eoyass stooped and gently lifted one of the broken stems of a petunia, the blossom trembling under the rain. She extended the flower so that it was in the monarch's full view. "I planted these over a month ago. The soil was at the perfect temperature and moisture was in the air. But the seedlings were still so small. I was afraid that they would not survive the transplant.

"However, the conditions were too optimal to be ignored and with the oncoming rains, I continued with my plans. As you see before you, these flowers have thrived. They struggled but they also persevered."

Queen Lucy's brow wrinkled in confusion.

Eoyass merely smiled, took the Queen's hand in her paw, and laid the velvety blossom in her palm. "Life is full of changes, your highness. Do not let the blossom be conquered. Persevere."

A long moment passed as Queen Lucy stared down at the flower in her pale hand. The volume of her voice was barely a whisper "And if I'm afraid?"

The hedgehog's smile grew. "The petunias are growing, are they not?"

The Queen was quiet for a minute longer before the edges or her lips curled up. Then something happened that Eoyass had not expected. In a flurry of bright fabric, the Queen crouched down and her two arms were suddenly flung around Eoyass' neck.

"Oh…oh my…" The rigidity in Eoyass muscles slowly eased as the warmth of the daughter of Eve's arms seeped through her needles.

The Queen pulled back, eyes still seeping tears, but an expression of contentment had settled over her face and there was a peace about her that hadn't been present previously. "Thank you."

"You're most welcome, highness."

"Oh, I'm just Lucy."

"But-"

"Phooey. I don't much care for the 'your highness' business." The daughter of Eve wrinkled her freckled nose for an instant and then nodded her head politely. "My name's Lucy."

"I am called Eoyass." The hedgehog gave the monarch before her a respectful bow.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Eoyass." Queen Lucy looked as though she would have continued but a male voice echoing across the garden's expanse prevented either from continuing the conversation.

"Lucy? Lucy!"

Queen Lucy took few quick steps to the cobbled pathway. "Peter?"

Eoyass watched as a tall, lanky son of Adam pass through the ivy grown archway. His golden blonde hair was already plastered to his head with rain and his fine tunic and breeches were showing the consequences of traipsing about in a rainstorm.

His head lifted as the wide green lawns came into view, obviously searching for something or someone, and the brilliant blue eyes roved the foliage. "Lucy?" he called again.

"Yes?" Queen Lucy's voice was timid, not at all the bright chirp it had been only a few short seconds ago.

"There you are." High King Peter's shoulder slumped, with relief no doubt if the tone of his voice was any indication.

"I was just…" she trailed off, unconsciously wringing her hands in her dripping sleeves.

The two siblings fumbled for words, each trying to bridge the uncomfortable gap. In Eoyass' eyes, all they needed was a slight nudge in the right direction. "I beg your pardon, your majesty. Your sister kindly offered to help me replant some of these petunias."

Queen Lucy glanced back at the hedgehog, a silent thanks emanating from her face.

"No pardon is necessary. I trust she was helpful?" High King Peter asked as decorum demanded but his gaze flicked back to his sister as often as possible, clearly concerned for her wellbeing.

"She was a true pleasure to have present, my lord."

"Excellent." He faltered as Queen Lucy had only moments ago. "Lucy? We…That is to say-"

The freckled face fell. "Su's in a mood because I've got my dress all ruined, isn't she?"

"No, I don't think she even knows that you're outside. You see…I've got an idea."

Like a plant that had finally burrowed roots down enough to find water, Queen Lucy's spirits visibly brightened. "Tell me about it?"

"Since Ed's gone and beat all the nobles at chess, I was wondering if you and I might team up and show him that's he's not the only Pevensie who can strategize. What do you say?" The High King's eyes scrutinized Queen Lucy's face as she thought. After a moment, he added, "Su even talked the kitchen staff into baking a batch of cookies."

He held out his hand, a wide, inviting grin on his face. "Come on, Lucy. It'll be fun, the whole day just for us four."

"Really?"

High King Peter nodded.

The smile that was talked about far and wide as being the most glorious, joyful smile ever beheld suddenly encompassed Queen Lucy's face. "That sounds lovely!"

"Then shall we go? I warrant Ed's already pacing the floor."

Queen's Lucy's voice lowered conspiratorially. "And we don't want him to wear out the wood."

A light trickle of laughter passed between them until the High King offered his hand and Queen Lucy did not hesitate an instant before taking hold.

Not even the sight of rain bringing the garden alive could have brought such a feeling to Eoyass' heart as the sight of the pair of siblings moving towards the palace, hand in hand, both sopping wet but utterly content.

Eoyass felt the quiet pleasure witnessing a tender moment and turned away with a soft smile to her mouth…until she saw the trampled petunias.

She sighed, shouldering the long hours of needed to return the flower bed to its full glory, and lifted her trowel. "Persevere."

**Fin**


	5. Calormene Merchant

Thank you, thank you to everyone that reviewed to the last chapter! .life, Mary, barelypassing4sane, rolletti, GoldSilverLionFox, LunaNigra, girlbird3, Autumnia, and Peace-Love-And-Mokneys7112, you made me so happy! And you motivate me to write a new chapter! Thanks also to everyone for the favorites, story alerts, and communities! :)

**Chapter 4: Calmorene Merchant**

The inn smelled of dust, sweat, and particularly strong ale.

As all inns are apt to be, the Lion's Tavern was crowded, small worn tables crammed into a wide room with a crackling fire pit in the center. Harried serving fauns clattered from place to place, always bearing a tray overlade with food, ale, and dishes. But what completed the crowded, smoky atmosphere were the filthy farmers, workers, and soldiers that occupied the tables and all but concealed the wide bar counter and the sullen bartender behind it.

Osman Fayiz Sakhr was not impressed.

He had arrived in Arcennene one hour ago and already he was questioning the prudence of his decision.

The trouble had begun when he requested a room with a window. The barkeep had quickly informed him, in a drawling slur that caused Osman to suspect that this man had been sampling his liquor too often, that there weren't any rooms with a window available.

When Osman asked if there was merely a room, the barkeep grinned, showing the Calmorene merchant his gap-filled set of teeth, and proceeded to say that there was one room left but it was by the kitchen.

Osman, beginning to taste the bitterness of regret, had lifted his coin purse and purchased the little room for the night. He'd then asked for a table, one outside the cloud of smoke in the center of the room.

The barmaid had made a face at him before sauntering off towards a table in the corner of the room. She had stopped abruptly, pointed to the table, taken his order for a pot of hot water, and left grumbling.

And here he sat, alone and not at all ruing the fact. If the Lion's Tavern was a sampling of the town's occupants he'd rather be in solitude. To be entirely honest, he wasn't even sure if he wanted to stay within the town's boundaries a moment longer.

He was still weighing the downsides against the benefits when the barmaid returned, a tarnished tea kettle in hand. A loud 'thunk' rang in his ears as she placed the kettle on his table, grimly waiting for his approval.

"Your hot water, mister."

Osman eyed the discolored metal warily. In Azim Balda, his current city of residence, such a kettle would have been pronounced unworthy years ago. Yet, he supposed it was the only vessel able to hold boiling water to be found in such an establishment.

The barmaid's eyes narrowed as she caught onto his displeasure. "Arcennene's not exactly known for rivaling Cair Paravel, hun. Use it or I'll take it back to the kitchen. But don't think you're getting out of the bill." She reached to reclaim the kettle.

"No. Thank you." Osman's hand closed around the handle before the barmaid's fingers could snatch it away. "I will be fine with this."

She watched him warily for a moment and seemed satisfied when he turned to his satchel. The two copper coins were exchanged quickly and quietly and she moved away as soon as she had the currency in the center of her faun palm.

Osman gave a longsuffering sigh and rooted around a moment longer in the soft leather satchel to pull out a small silk bag. Already he could smell the tea's spicy fragrance.

A fragment of the disgust melted away as he placed several dried leaves into the steaming water, the scents filling the air about his face. He breathed a soft sigh of relief, glad to be free of the ale's acidic stench.

He was still breathing deeply of the aromatic air when the door to the Lion's Tavern creaked open. Osman would have paid the entrance no attention, the door had opened and closed constantly since his arrival as the men finished their work for the day and headed to the bar to fetch themselves a pint of ale, but the pair that entered where unlike any he'd seen in this town.

The first was dark-haired, not altogether uncommon, and a set of equally dark brown eyes. They were alert and roved the area in a quick sweep of approval before he motioned to the other behind him.

And it was the second that brought a flood of questions to Osman's head. This one had hair the color of fine golden silk. His eyes were not the dark brown of his companion but a brilliant blue, the color of the sea on a bright spring morning.

Both were tall, taller than most of the creatures crowding around the bar, and lanky. They wore not the rough wool of most of their forebears but smooth cotton. With the dark haired one in lead they moved towards the bar, stepping self-assuredly.

A slight break in the tables, chairs, and masses of the crowd left Osman with even more questions. The two newcomers did not walk with hoofed feet, or cloven feet, or paws, or anything of the kind.

They walked with legs. As though they were sons of Adam.

Surely not…in this town? Nay, this must be a taller line of dwarven descent.

Now wholly curious, he watched as the two 'dwarves' pushed their way to the bar and ordered, from what came sliding down the rail, two ales.

Here Osman's attention waned. His tea was prepared and he had no desire to watch two young 'dwarves' get themselves intoxicated. Osman did indulge in a glass of mulled wine occasionally but he'd been to enough banquets to see people drink their way to a frenzy of drunkenness. That alone stayed much of his desire to consume ale, or anything of the kind.

He devoted his attention to his tea instead. The dark leaves had spread out in the water's warm caress and the water itself had become a rich auburn. Carefully dipping his spoon into the water, he neatly retrieved the leaves and disposed of them.

Then, he poured himself a cup and sat back to block out the noises of the tavern and instead focus on relaxing. His eyes drifted shut as the fragments of annoyance drifted away. He could almost imagine that he was drinking his tea by the bazaar back home…

A thundering crash shattered any hope of mentally returning home.

His eyes snapped open and he found that the dark-haired 'dwarf' was on his rump by the bar, four burly wolves snarling down at him. The crowds around them had instantly gone quiet, watching the confrontation with wide eyes and baited breath.

"Watch it, young one. I've killed creatures twice your size." The wolf in front growled.

The 'dwarf' pushed himself back up to his feet, brushed off the knees of his breeches, and took his seat again, calmly overlooking the threat.

It seemed a harder task for his companion. Beneath his golden head, his brows knotted and his mouth was twisted into a glowering scowl, looking very much like he wanted to break a few chairs over the wolf's head.

The dark-haired 'dwarf' merely grasped his friend by the wrist and yanked down hard, giving the other no choice but to sit back down.

The four wolves did not seem to appreciate the 'dwarf's' attempt to remain free of conflict and the one in lead spoke again, each word dripping with contempt. "Are you afraid, little one?"

The 'dwarf' pointedly ignored him and reached for his mug of ale.

The wolf lunged, his paw knocking the ale from the table. "I said, are you afraid?"

The 'dwarf' watched with a mixture of disappointment and frustration as the ale disappeared through chinks in the wooden flooring.

But his golden haired friend rose to his feet. "Look, here, my brother and I are just trying to-"

"Do I look like I care what you were trying to do?"

Here, the dark haired 'dwarf's' temper flared. "If you could see past your own nose, you might care about a lot of things!"

The wolf's shoulders tensed and his teeth appeared in the tavern's torch-lit space. "I would be careful what I said, if I were you."

"Why? Because you have killed creatures twice my size?"

The sharp teeth reappeared and the crowd unconsciously shrank back. "You're asking for a fight, tiny."

The golden haired 'dwarf' spoke first this time, and there was fire in his voice. "And you're goading for one."

"Oi! You!" The overweight, near-toothless bartender faun clomped over. "If you're going rough house, take it outside!" Even the wolves couldn't help backing away sullenly as he continued, "Fighting's not something civilized people do. I suggest you get your ale and go back to your tables."

The head wolf slunk towards the other side of the room, his long tail missing the golden-headed 'dwarf's' ale by an inch. "You're not worth my time anyway."

The blond 'dwarf' looked murderous but the dark-haired 'dwarf' placed a hand on his shoulder and stayed the wrath. "No, I'm not."

The quiet sentence reached the wolf's sharp ears and the brothers were only given a yellow eyed glare before the agile creature lunged at them, knocking over the table and sending ale flying.

Osman set his tea back on the table and stared in utter amazement as the room was rapidly torn apart. The conflict between the wolves and the 'dwarves' ignited a series of other fights, sending the room into havoc within moments.

In the first moments of the frenzy, Osman assumed the wolves would easily beat the 'dwarves' into submission and trot out, a gaping, cowering mob in their wake. But to his astonishment, the brothers held their own, deflecting blows and dodging others. Then, moving almost as a unit, they each drew a long deadly blade and moved forward, sending the crowds squealing as the wolves were driven back.

The barkeep's voice was garbled amongst the racket. "Get out…fiends! Ruining…reputation!"

The wolves seemed taken aback by the swords held by hands that undoubtedly knew to use them well, for the white fire that consumed the 'dwarves' eyes was that of a fierce warrior.

Perhaps the ale, perhaps the smoke, perhaps pride, but more likely a mixture of all three sent the wolves flying to attack, darting just out of the metal's unforgiving reach.

The odds were finally what kept the two 'dwarves' from ending the fight then and there. The door was burst through as the golden haired 'dwarf' was thrown against it. He reappeared a short moment later, dusty, no doubt bruised and, most importantly, livid.

The dark haired dwarf was filling the hole his brother had left, brows knotted and shoulders tense. "Pete!" The cry was harsh and immediately brought the golden haired 'dwarf' to his side.

They remained at their current place of defense before the wolves forced them back a step, and then another, and then another. Slowly, the door, sagging on its hinges from the 'dwarven battering ram' that had collided with it only moments before, was at their heels.

Three quick lunges and a blow to the dark haired 'dwarf's' left arm sent the brothers tumbling out and into the darkened street. The wolves did not let it end there and scrambled out in pursuit, a chorus of eerie howls echoing through the tavern.

Osman had no doubt that if anything could be seen the whole tavern would be cramming around the windows and doors to catch a glimpse of the fight. As it was only half the patrons vacated their seats and pushed their way to find a good view of the proceedings.

Sighing, he returned to his tea, taking a cautious sip only to groan in bitter remorse. During the conflict, the water had cooled. He shoved back the kettle and the cup, reaching for his satchel and the small store of dried dates packed inside.

He'd popped the first oval fruit in his mouth when the sounds from outside went still. Deathly still.

The door creaked. The crowd skittered away.

And, to a round of low murmurings, the 'dwarves' returned, swords sheathed.

They walked to their table, found their mugs among the rubbish, and reseated themselves. The dark haired 'dwarf' lifted the wooden mug and turned it over, watching mournfully as the last amber drop rolled off the rim.

"Well, it's not like he's run out of ale, Ed." The golden haired one quipped and shoved back his chair to approach the bar.

He was in the midst of ordering another round when the door was yet again opened. Both brothers' shoulders tensed and their hands flew to the sword's hilts, altogether prepared for a second round with the wolves.

But it was most certainly not a wolf that towered in the doorway. It was a massive, scowling centaur. His dark eyes were narrow slits as they darted over the masses and, if possible, became mere lines when he saw the two 'dwarves'.

"Peter?" the dark haired 'dwarf' gulped. "I think that might be all the ale we get."

"I think you might be correct." 'Peter' did not look too pleased with the situation either and Osman couldn't help wondering what these 'dwarves' had done to have so many enemies.

The centaur had a white knuckled grip on a wide broadsword. "King Peter, King Edmund, your escort awaits your presence outside."

Osman straightened, his earlier suspicions awakening. Two kings, one dark and one golden. The tale of their conquests had been told across all the lands to every child able to walk on this side of the sea.

Strong and brave and noble, they represented the best of Narnia.

And the best of Narnia was currently sitting in the midst of the remains of what had once been a peaceful, if not unkempt, tavern.

"Excellent, Oreius. I'll just get this ale and we'll be on our way." The golden one, Peter, smiled affably.

"Your majesty. Your escort awaits you." If the words would have been steel, they still would have been ground to bits under the centaur's teeth.

"Right…" Peter placed some coins on the bar top and walked over to his brother.

"I suppose its fate then. No ale?" Edmund questioned, accepting the hand the other son of Adam offered and standing.

"No ale." The centaur stepped aside to open the pathway and pointed a thick arm to the night air.

Peter only shrugged and said, "You heard the centaur."

The trio thumped out and the tavern was reigned by silence, all present trying to absorb what had just happened.

It was the barmaid that had delivered Osman's kettle who spoke first. "Who's King Edmund and King Peter?"

**Fin**


	6. Wash Maid

Thanks so much to everyone that reviewed! Captive1princess, LunaNigra, Autumnia, cap red, girlbird3, Lirenel, Golden Ashes, barelypassing4sane, Mary, KCS, rolletti, Wildfire2, simbelmyrne, .Life, Peace-Love-And-Mokneys7112, and Window2MySoul--I can't tell you how much I appreciate your enthusiasum!

I am so sorry about the wait and I hope this chapter lives up to your expectations!

Anonymous Reviewer Replies:

simbelmyrne: Thanks very much for the review! And thank you for reading! :)

Mary: Thanks very much! Actually, I don't think I was drinking tea. Surprising, I know. Glad you liked the chapter!

**Chapter 6: Wash Maid**

A sort of romantic aura filled the air with the dawn of each new day.

Or so Miri had always believed.

When she was only seven weeks old, she'd caught her first sight of Cair Paravel with a backdrop of a rose red sunrise. She'd known then that she belonged in that great palace, feeling the cool smooth tiles of marble underneath her paws and the swell of adventure in her spirit.

Alas, all the castle had need of when she inquired after a position was a washing maid. However, she would be within those gleaming walls, part of a living legend and that was a prize too great to pass up.

Like a swath of soft cotton she had soaked up all the stories of Beruna she could find. She learned all that she could about the Kings and Queens that had been the tool Aslan had used to restore hope to her homeland. Her mind, wild with tales of glory days gone by, created images of the glorious table they feasted at and the fine company they spent their days with.

The first time she'd seen King Edmund she was sure that there was a maiden with russet hair and the wide, dark eyes of the Telmarines awaiting him in the warm comfort of a library to match his wit and cunning with mystery and intrigue. And then she'd seen King Peter, and her mind conjured up images of a lady, perhaps a dryad, with hair as bright as the sun standing below a bower of wild roses, hands outstretched to catch his and pull him away to the grassy fields and a wide sapphire sky.

Such strong, noble, and brave sons of Adam surely had suitors as worthy as themselves.

It was this thought that kept Miri happily entertained even when she tired of hearing Trishna's voice prattle on about the latest gossip. For it was a well known fact that the wash rooms were the rampant birthplace of all palace gossip. And Trishna was the loudest of them all. Not even the ladies maids could outdo the wash maids, and certainly not Trishna.

It's not like they could help it. One could tell so much from a person's laundry.

For instance, Lord Wimble's atrocious manners. Why, the wash maids knew before the banquet maids did. Blackberry stains coated the front of his nightshirts.

Or Lady Spella's fondness for lilies. Nearly all of her gowns were embroidered with them. Lord Hamfast would have done well to have consulted the wash maids before professing his love and presenting her with a bouquet of peonies that had cost him a small fortune.

This day, however, none of that mattered. This day Miri had been selected to gather and wash the four monarch's laundry.

The bedchambers of the Kings and Queens were as ornate as she'd imagined them to be, gilded mirrors, satin bed linens, wardrobes larger than Miri's whole family standing upon each others shoulders--and for a ferret, she had a very large family. A balcony overlooking the sea was in each bedchamber with a long plush chaise resting in the full beams of pale dawning light.

But Miri was only allowed a slight glance as the doors opened before a lady's maid deposited a pile of cloth into Miri's basket.

Sighing and trying to savor the glimpse she'd been allowed, she moved to the last bedchamber, King Peter's bedchamber. She almost passed it by. After all, King Peter and King Edmund were still near the southern border at the last report. They weren't thought to be back for several days.

She had to content herself with the pile of laundry trailing behind her in a basket on velvety runners and the prospect of a morning filled with her paws sunk in a tub of soapy water. At least her thoughts could run free, exploring the seemingly endless corridors and meeting the crowds of lords and ladies.

The end of the hallway was curling out of the royal wing when a lady's maid came scurrying after her, waving a swath of fabric.

The item was tossed unto the towering pile and the lady's maid disappeared back down the hallway, muttering some incomprehensible nonsense. Miri merely continued her trek to the wash rooms, wondering if Aslan had to make sons of Adam and daughters of Eve quite so tall...

Twenty lion paces away from the sudsy room Miri began to hear the hum of voices, weaving tales both true and false, intermingling them until one couldn't be deciphered from the other. And so began another day of washing.

The wash room was a rectangular room filled with wide, wooden tubs brimming with heated water. Steam curling up from water's surface clouded the lye-scented air and almost hid away the last unused tub. She scurried over before someone decided that their water was dirtied, and decide to make use of a fresh tub to avoid having to refill their own.

Trishna was, as usual, chattering away about some lady who was sensitive to all herbal scents and the great scandal that erupted when she'd been invited to a garden party by only the richest duchess this side of the sea.

Miri had heard this tale before and set about preparing the clothes to wash, the familiar words becoming white noise in her ears. She caught up the item resting on the top and searched for stains, or marks that would require extra attention. It did seem strange that the lady's maid would run after the wash maid to confer a simple, linen tunic.

No extensive embroidery embellished the collar, though a thin line of gold thread was woven around the cuffs. Surely this could have waited until the next wash maid's arrival. A tunic of this size would take Miri a good portion of the dawn light to wash thoroughly.

She was pushing the tunic to the water's edge when the edge of the fabric twisted in the light and her sharp eyes caught a brilliant flash of color. Wondering what trinket had been hidden away, for nobles often secured jewelry or the like away in their suits and then promptly forgot such wealth existed until the laundry had been collected, she nudged about.

And felt her breath catch in her throat.

A deep crimson stain coated the left side of the entire tunic. A metallic smell assaulted her nose when she leaned in to inspect the stain further. She pulled away, eyes wide.

One thousand questions pummeled her mind all in one stroke. Blood? Though she was no expert on the subject, what else could it be...but whose? And why? Which room had she been next to when the lady's maid had chased her? Had she left the royal wing? Perhaps it was a lord's...perhaps...no, she clearly remembered being only a few yards from King Edmund's bedchamber, the royal bedchamber closest to the wash rooms.

The maid had come from one door back...High King Peter's bedchamber!

Surely he had not returned already, would someone have heard? Trishna perhaps? But if he had, the stain was his? Had he returned wounded? Miri's breath now came quick and fast, the pieces clicking into place in her head.

Perhaps, perhaps they hadn't mentioned his arrival in an effort to keep his condition concealed. Perhaps they'd been attacked by bandits on their return journey. Perhaps the High King had been mortally wounded.

Then, he could be saying his farewells to the world even now as the sunlight made its appearance over the gray horizon. He could be lying, strength bleeding away, with his sisters weeping at his side and his brother had the foot of the bed. They could be hearing the last requests of a King and brother, the pressing weight of sorrow settling over their hearts.

Suddenly Miri felt an unquenchable urge to flee to her King's side. She would be of no medical help but if it was anything like her imagination told her, she would be a comfort in those last cold moments before life's candle was snuffed out.

Throwing down the tunic, she fell to all four paws and flew out of the wash rooms, ignoring the faint cries of indignant wash maids. They merely did not understand the severity of the situation. Who could worry about linens when a monarch's life was in jeopardy?

Miri had never moved so swiftly or with such purpose as she did now. She practically flew down the hallways, the only thought driving her to enter that room and offer whatever consolation she could.

Mayhap, the High King would even have a quest for her, a grand adventure that would bring her into the graces of the court and the favor of the monarchs. Mayhap, she would even meet a noble ferret with titles and land to his name who would fall madly in love with her upon witnessing her virtue and sacrifice.

She screeched around the corner and closed the last few feet to the High King's bedchamber. The door was closed, no doubt to keep the masses from panic. However, Miri would handle the loss with valor. She would bear the burden well.

The door was easily pushed aside and Miri went sliding in, prepared to view the High King for the final time, prepared to take her place among the legends of history.

But the bed lay empty. The chair by at the bedside, too, sat vacant.

Breathless and very confused, she glanced about the room and saw no bloodied bandages or weeping Queens or brooding Kings. She was very much alone in the opulent bedchamber.

That is, until the slender figure of Queen Lucy stepped in from the balcony, hands tangled in a towel. Her rich brown hair hid half of her face from view yet Miri knew instinctively that the Queen was unaware of her presence.

Miri knew somehow she'd been mistaken. How? She didn't know...

"Bother..." the Queen muttered, twisting her fingers about in the cloth and Miri caught another glimpse of angry red.

And then again, the questions resurfaced. That was it, Miri had simply entered the wrong room. She must have mistaken the distance between the rooms. It must have been King Edmund that was injured. Queen Lucy must have sought solace to recollect her thoughts upon seeing her brother's blood.

The round eyes that musicians across the land sang about flicked up from the towel and Miri was spotted. "Oh my! I hadn't thought there was anyone else in here! I'm terribly sorry!"

Miri internally congratulated herself. Her assumptions had been correct. "Nay, my Queen, I should be the one begging your forgiveness." the ferret found the words difficult to find. How did one voice such a thing?

"You..." her brow wrinkled in thought. "You should?"

"Aye, if I had not been so presumptuous as to intrude upon you in this time of-"

The door clicked open and Queen Susan, in all her elegant glory as rare and fine as the ballads said, entered. She immediately crossed the room to come beside her sister, heaving a soft sigh that would break one hundred knight's hearts. "Oh, Lucy...Iysa told me all about it."

Queen Lucy's gaze dropped and her cheeks flushed. "I am sorry."

Miri took a few respectful paces back, prepared to exit the room and leave the two mourning sisters in peace.

"No harm done, really. I'll tell Peter the wash maids misplaced his tunic if the stain won't come out and all will be well."

Miri's head shot up. All would be well? Her brother was on the brink of death and all would be well with the rinsing of a tunic?

"If only I'd been more careful with the paints..." Queen Lucy trailed off and Miri became more confused than ever.

Paints, what in Aslan's name were they talking about? Unfortunately, Miri wouldn't receive any more clues.

A chime of golden trumpets and the two straightened, a light dawning on both of their faces.

"Su, is that," Queen Lucy's voice was breathless with anticipation, "do you think that's them?"

The answer was the door opening yet another time and Miri felt the last of her confusion melt away into something else entirely. Her eyes followed a pair of muddied boots all the way to the inquiring face of her Liege, the one and only High King Peter with King Edmund only a step behind.

She shrank back, skin flushing scarlet underneath her sable fur down to the tip of her tail.

"Peter! Edmund!" The chorus of their voices and the race to the door to fling their arms about the traveling brothers' necks left Miri with no escape route, leaving her to sit in nearly unbearable embarrassment as they were reacquainted.

"How did you manage to arrive so early? We thought you'd be away until tomorrow." Queen Susan's face was as equally delighted as her sisters, though her eyes managed to quickly survey that both brothers were unharmed.

"Ed missed his chess set so we rode through the night."

"Right, I was the one packed up half the camp and practially galloped the whole way here." The dry sarcasm in King Edmund's voice brought a faint sheen of color to the High King's cheeks.

"Admit it, you wanted to be back here as badly as any of the rest of us." The High King pointedly avoided mentioning himself, a fact which was no doubt the reason behind King Edmund's smirk.

"Pete, look, you've got to come see. I think it's the best I've done yet." Queen Lucy tugged on her older brother's hand, pulling him out to the balcony, the petty debate completely forgotten.

The final piece of the puzzle found it's place when Miri saw the object of Queen Lucy's enthusiasm.

A painting of a bright crimson rose.


	7. Swordsmith

Whew! Who knew a chapter could take me so long! If any of you are still reading this, I'll be impressed. My computer is still down, homework is ankle deep, and I'm getting ready for a move across several states so writing time has been a bit rare. That, everybody, is my spectacular excuse. I am sorry and I will try harder to get the next up in a shorter timespan. :)

Thank you so to all of you that favorited or put this story on alert or in a community! :D

And thank you, as always, to my reviewers: Peace-Love-And-Mokneys7112, ginevra85, Wildfire2, girlbird3, Lita of Jupiter, Autumnia, Mary, LunaNigra, and rolletti! :) I really appreciate you taking the time to tell me what you thought of the story!

This chapter is dedicated to Aerwen Skywalker. Thanks so much for the idea!

Special thanks to rolletti for giving me a little nudge to get this chapter written!

**Chapter 7: Swordsmith**

Rarely in a creature's life is he given the change to defend his honor in battle. To experience the thunder of footfalls, the roar of voices, and the buzzing heat of adrenaline. Yet nothing is so moving as the sight of a pale blade lifted high into the bright midday sunlight in the hands of a warrior.

Khur had not seen a truly talented sword-master in ions, not even amongst all his wanderings.

He'd never been quite content to settle in one area for long before the itching to explore, to experience, began to grow in his bones. Therefore, he'd only been in near the sea a few weeks, enough to establish a budding reputation, when a guard in the full palace livery delivered a commission to Cair Paravel's sword smithy.

Acceptance had never been a question. Really, now, who refused a king? The only real question was how long Khur would remain employed there, a question that, once answered, left him much relieved.

The contract was of a temporary kind. The original sword-smith's wife had experienced a great number of complications while bearing their children and as a result the dwarf had requested a number of weeks off to care for his growing brood and weary wife.

Khur had been found to be a suitable replacement.

And that was why he stood in the forges of the palace, eyes keenly inspecting a blade fresh from the furnace. The sheen of metal glowed with a pale silvery light dancing up the sharp edges and clean lines. Khur felt a slow grin slide over his face as he surveyed the blade.

Never let it be said that this dwarf was not a swordsmith.

He laid the heavy weapon carefully aside for the apprentices to sharpen and polish before moving deeper into the smithy's dark awnings to fetch the next sword to be tempered. He had only just begun to shape the metal when there was scuffling of footsteps and the hushed words of someone approaching.

Khur noted that during his entire time here he hadn't once received a visitor within the smithy. They'd always delivered the day's commissions at the door each morning. They must want something, a conclusion that Khur reached with distaste. He had no great care for the pinched face of the page that handed him the letters listing the daily requests.

However, he replaced the hammer to the workbench and shoved the sword into a tub of water, sending great clouds of steam flying about the room. That should keep the page away even a few moments longer.

He turned back to the anvil, fully prepared to begin the next round of hammering when a figure far too tall to be the scrawny faun page appeared from the thick steam. He received a second surprise as a another figure emerged.

They were conversing in soft but clipped tones, both seemed slightly agitated. As the steam cleared, the picture became more clear and Khur came to the most stunning thought that these were perhaps not pages, at all, or palace workers of any kind. He caught a glimpse of a wonderfully crafted sword at the first figure's hip.

The seamless work could only mean one thing. Rhindon.

And that meant that the High King Peter the Magnificent stood before him. Behind him, a dark-headed human followed, a covered item cradled in his hands.

Khur had never considered himself the kind that scraped and bowed before royalty but when he realized that not only High King Peter stood in the smithy but King Edmund as well, he set aside the sword as swiftly as was prudent and bowed low enough that his beard, braided to remain free of his work, brushed the dusty floor.

"Oh! Oh..."

Straightening, Khur looked up. The High King's face was showing confusion and his brother, a pace away, seemed so as well. They exchanged a quick glance, King Edmund subtly shifting the item in his hands into the shadows.

"Is...is Dneg here?"

"No, my lords, I believe he is to return to his work in a fortnight. I am his replacement." Khur bowed low again.

A silent conversation flickered between the pair, the words formulated by the twitch of an eyebrow or the look in the eyes. The younger seemed to shrug and the older reached out to take the item so carefully concealed by a pale cloth.

"And have you much experience with silver?"

Khur reflected a moment to formulate his answer. He'd tinkered with silver, as any good swordsmith should but he wouldn't be considered a silversmith by any means. "I have some experience, my lord, not extensive. I am familiar with filigree and things of that nature."

"Excellent." The cloth was unwrapped and the item came into sight. He extended a slim wooden box with fine filigree embellishing the lid and four silvery short legs at the base. One leg had a crack where the metal came to meet the rich wood, leaving the delicate thing useless.

King Edmund stepped forward. "Can you fix it?"

"If I may..." Khur held out his palm to examine the box.

It was placed in his care and after a brief moment of inspection during which the two monarchs were unable to hold still, though perhaps that was common for sons of Adam, Khur spoke. "I believe the main damage is in the fracture here," he pointed out the rift in the smooth silver, "which can be repaired without much trouble at all."

High King Peter breathed an audible sigh of relief, a sound which King Edmund copied only a half second later.

The nervous spark re-lit itself in King Edmund's eyes and his spine shot ramrod straight. "Will it take you long to mend?"

"Nay." Khur gave the box another glance. "I daresay this will be as good as new by the noon meal."

King Edmund looked as thought he wanted to interject a comment, but High King Peter interrupted smoothly. "Excellent. We'll wait."

"Peter-"

A firm look, even more firm than the farmers who would bargain for a hour for a pound of nails at half price, and the younger King remained silent, though he had the looks of a centaur who'd been slighted by a filly.

Khur cleared his throat, feeling very much out of place. Perhaps it was custom in Cair Paravel to carry on such silent conversations. "Shall I begin work then?"

"If it all possible, my brother and I would most grateful."

"We'd retain our hearing, too."

"Ed..."

"Well, it's true."

"As I said, we would be grateful."

Khur selected the smallest hammer at his workbench and began to tap the fissure close to latch around the wood. If had the resources he would have liked to seal the crack shut with a bit more silver but that would take much more time than the monarchs seemed willing to accept. Besides, the silver's fissure had a clean edge and would likely set right back into place.

Time passed and slowly the Kings' agitation became more pronounced. King Edmund began to pace, his long stride carrying him easily across the smithy and back within moments. High King Peter settled himself on a low overturned bucket, fingers drumming his knee.

"Peter? Edmund?" A female voice, light and airy, floated through the air.

High King Peter blanched and, in his haste to stand, nearly cracked his head on the workbench.

King Edmund was slightly more graceful, if not as swift. "We were not here," he hissed and snatched the box from Khur's hands, dashing away towards a nook behind a tall stack of fresh firewood.

"And we haven't seen Susan's music box," High King Peter added and then he disappeared into the shadows by the bellows.

Khur felt his mouth gape, barely managing to close it and replace the hammer in his hand to the workbench when a slender form entered the smithy.

Not once had he beheld anything so lovely as the sight of Queen Susan. Lilies were tied into her dark curls and the smooth silk of her gown permeated the room with the scent of roses. "Peter? Oh, I am dreadfully sorry...I didn't mean to interrupt."

"It was nothing, my lady." Khur bowed for the third time that day. This time his beard came up with a fine powdering of dirt.

She smiled and Khur thought he'd seen a glimmer of the finest jewels dwarven miners could find. "Please, do continue."

"Thank you, your highness."

"Oh, and if you see my brothers, would you inform them that I wish to speak with them?" Her fingers danced against each other.

"I will indeed."

"My thanks." Then she dipped into a curtsy and was gone, the memory of her beauty and the smell of flowers lingering in the smithy.

Khur was unaware as the two Kings tumbled out of their hiding places, only thinking of the Gentle Queen.

"Ed, take the music box."

"Why do I take it?"

"Because you took it out. Now, come on, before she knows what happened." The brothers were only a few steps from the doorway when the High King suddenly turned back. "Thank you..."

"I am called Khur."

"Ah, well, thank you, Khur. Your services have been most appreciated." An instant later and the pair had scuttled out, the box carefully secured under King Edmund's arm.

Khur turned back to his smithy, now empty, and blew out a long breath. A good draught of ale would suit him at this moment, for only at a tavern would anyone believe a story such as this.


	8. Mermaid

Thank you so much to reviewers Fairies-are-Real, Dazed. in. Life, rolletti, LunaNigra, Wildfire2, jdeppgirl4, peanutmeg, ProdigiousDiscourse, barelypassing4sane, Autumnia, Tonzura123 and ginevra85!!

And I really do mean thank you, everyone. I recently purged my email inbox of junk mail and in the process re-read the reviews I've recieved and your enthusiasum meant so much to me! Thank you, thank you!

Special thanks to Caomhe of Tyrone and Arquenniel for the brainstorming help! I really don't think I would've had the patience to see this one through without you!

**Chapter 8: Mermaid**

A mesmerizing sort of aura clung to the surface of the water, dancing spirals of pure light filtering down through the sapphire waves. Beneath the sparkle lay Isha's domain. Disregarding the swirling colors reflected in the water, Isha captured the attention of all who passed.

And she wanted it that way.

She loved having a school of young mermen streaming after her, silvery shells and fine sonnets intended to gain her good favor. It was a pleasant game to her, keeping their hearts tied to her but never once returning any of their affections save when it suited her interests.

However, one merman remained impervious to her beauty.

He had the loveliest black curls and the brightest green eyes. Every mermaid in the seven seas would have given their tail fin to be the object of his love. And Isha was among their number.

Why shouldn't she?

She was the most beautiful. She should have the very best.

Carthan was the very best, at least for the moment.

She'd spent hours arranging the dark locks about her shoulders so as to carefully accent the deep pools of her eyes and the smooth lines of her cheekbones. And it had worked.

Finally, after months of labor, he was at last by her side, chasing the brilliant rays of light through the cool water. Isha could feel the passing gaze of envious mermaids, glowering over her victory, and let her smile widen.

This was her day and she would revel in it.

If only they would swim past the Anabius caves so that all her admirers could see and ooze with jealousy. Perhaps she would finally receive a new pearl necklace in their renewed efforts to capture her fancy.

But instead Carthan had raced off, a dimpled smile flashing back over his shoulder and the silvery glint of his tail to chase. Isha had no choice but to follow or lose her afternoon with him.

He shot through the water, the sun's rays becoming stronger and stronger as they traveled at breakneck speeds. Gradually a white expanse grew on the horizon and Isha immediately recognized the smooth sands as the beaches below Cair Paravel.

She didn't see what was so special there. The sands were comfortable…if one was interesting in lying in the sun, something Isha was not looking to do. The sun would ruin her hair, turn all her smooth locks to frizz.

Carthan glanced back and Isha quickly replaced the pout with a smile.

He returned the expression and turned back to swim.

Isha's pout renewed two seconds later and she felt herself counting the minutes until they stopped this ridiculous race to the sandbars before them.

Just when the water roaring past her ears almost became too much, Carthan slowed, folding his tail underneath him and pushing the water in front of him back to halt his progress. He pointed at the surface, only feet away in the shallow waters. Slowly, as to break the surface with barely a ripple, they felt the cool water give way and took a breath of dry air.

Isha was beginning to feel annoyed. The mermen's jealous fervor was not worth this. It would take weeks for her skin to recover from the moisture loss.

His voice was low and rumbled pleasantly. "I come here often."

"Indeed." She wasn't impressed.

He nodded, a twinkle in his eyes begging to be explained.

"And…why is that?"

"Wait and see."

Isha waited, trying to ignore how bitingly clear her vision was without the water to distort it and feeling her head begin to ache as her skin dried. Before them was the long stretch of white sands and then the craggy face of the cliffs below Cair Paravel.

Voices, stripped of the warbling she had become so accustomed to, trailed down past the cove to their left. The mermaid sent herself past a boulder obstructing her view with a quick flick of emerald scales and saw four figures sprinting down the beach with an entourage of various creatures following them.

Huffing a small sigh, she glanced down to the other end of the beach. It couldn't be the Kings and Queens of Narnia that Carthan had brought her here for. They really weren't anything special. Perhaps he was waiting for her to spot a conch shell washed up on the sand.

She spared a small look in his direction. His perfect face wasn't looking down the beach at all but towards the cove…towards the sons of Adam and the daughters of Eve.

"Carthan-"

"Shh, they've come." He reached out and caught her hand, pulling her close to his side.

"Carthan," she tried her most disarming tone, a silky murmur, "Cair Paravel is a wonder but perhaps we could go to the Anabius caves. I've heard there are some lovely springs there."

"Isha, wait a moment. You'll see." Carthan grinned at her and stubbornly remained in place.

Isha's temper would have reared but he suddenly slid his arm around her waist and pointed at the first figure to reach the waters, a slim daughter of Eve.

"See? That one is called Susan…" He spoke the name as though it was the finest sonnet.

Even Daena, the silliest and most ignorant of mermaids, would have seen the way his eyes lingered on 'Susan'. Not even Carthan's strong grip about her hip made Isha's jealousy cool now.

Was Carthan blind? He had the loveliest of mermaids at his side. What would he want with a simple daughter of Eve?

"And that one there," he pointed to a small form just reaching the water's edge. "She is called Lucy."

"Carthan…" Isha felt the name grind on her teeth.

He was, once more, completely oblivious. "And the one behind Lucy? He is called Peter, I believe."

"Indeed." Isha's glower turned on the figure he pointed to…and an instant later her glower was nothing of the sort. In fact, Isha was beginning to see how this day could prove to be beneficial. "By Peter you mean High King Peter, of course."

"Yes, and behind him is Edmund."

Indeed!" Oh yes, today would be very beneficial.

Lucy's laughter kept Isha from saying anymore. "We beat you! You owe me a new dagger, Pete!"

"That wasn't entirely fair, you know. We didn't exactly get much warning." The son of Adam had grown since she'd seen him last. At that time he had only been High King for a matter of days. He hadn't been much to look at. A shark the size of her tail could have overpowered him. This day however, she saw that he had grown. His shoulders were broad and his face pleasant.

Isha might have enjoyed the moment but more than just Peter was present, and the reminder was about as enjoyable as getting beached on an uninhabited island.

"You sound almost jealous!" Susan's voice really wasn't all that beautiful but Carthan was mesmerized by it.

"Can't take a loss?" The youngest one was giggling as she trailed her fingers through the waves.

"I didn't say that."

"Sounded like you did to me." Edmund chipped in, easily tugging off his tunic and joining his sisters in the water.

"Aren't you supposed to be on my side?"

"Oh no, I'm a neutral party, Pete."

"Traitor!" The High King splashed into the water after them, grinning good naturedly but moving towards his younger brother.

"I think Lucy's onto something." Susan brushed back the long strands of satiny hair from her slender face and, again, Carthan's eyes followed her every move. "You are jealous."

"No, I'm not…I just-" Peter glanced at Edmund.

"Neutral party, remember?" The younger son of Adam turned two fingers on himself and backed away from his older brother.

"A neutral party that didn't have any problem with tackling me a few days ago." Peter reached to pull off his own tunic and Isha saw a glimpse of the lean muscles beneath.

"I think you've gotten a little too much sun, Peter, because you tackled me. I wasn't the one that crashed into…" Edmund suddenly trailed off.

The High King froze at the same instant, his nose and eyes peeking back through the tunic's neckline.

Susan's eyes narrowed. "Crashed into what?"

"Nothing, it's nothing." Peter tried to shrug, his charming voice muffled by the fabric, as he returned himself to removing his tunic.

"This 'nothing' wouldn't happen to have anything to do with my music box, would it?"

Isha had gradually drifted forward, her emerald tail lifting her up through the water so that her porcelain shoulders broke the surface. She was only barely a stone's throw from the monarchs and she drifted closer with each new wave.

A little gasp and Isha's attention was torn from Peter and Edmund to the youngest. "Susan! Look! A mermaid!"

Carthan immediately shrank back, wary of being seen. Isha was not so shy. He had wanted them to see the humans. Well, she wanted the humans to see her. It was only fair that she fulfill her expectations also.

With an impish glint sparkling in her eyes she moved out past the rock. Carthan made to catch her hand but he moved too slowly and only water brushed her fingers.

"Lucy, maybe we shouldn't bother her…" Susan reached for her younger sister's hand.

The little dark haired daughter of Eve was oblivious and waded closer. "I don't think we've ever met before."

Isha didn't even pretend to be interested in what the daughter of Eve said. Carthan had wanted to see them. He would get his wish.

And she would get hers.

For who was a greater prize than a High King? Carthan would surely fall for her once she had the High King wrapped around her pinky finger.

Queen Lucy's smile remained sweetly in place. "I'm Lucy."

The two brothers either hadn't heard their sister or didn't care, remaining where they stood in the shallows, bickering quietly.

"Lucy…" Susan placed a hand on her shoulder, bent in close, and whispered, "I don't think she wants to speak with us."

"Why not?"

While they had been conversing, Carthan had also slipped forward in the azure waters, his jaw hanging slightly. Again, Isha felt bewilderment rise within her. What was so bewitching?

"I just don't think she's interested." The low volume of Susan's voice might have escaped many creatures but not a mermaid. Isha heard every word as if it had been spoken only a few inches away. "Lets-"

"Su! A merman!"

Utilizing the opportunity, Isha flipped under the nearest wave, sliding through the cool Narnian waters. Instantly, her hair calmed, curling around her shoulders, arms, and waist. In a move that had taken her months to perfect, she surfaced, her back to the High King, her head turned, and her eyes flicking back at him.

To her utter shock the High King ignored her presence completely, preferring instead to give his brother a hard shove on the shoulder.

Drowning out the young Queen's prattle, Isha watched in astonishment and mounting annoyance as Edmund shoved Peter right back. The two were like a pair of quarreling clownfish while her beauty faded under the sun's harsh rays.

"That was supremely brilliant, Ed."

"Technically I didn't say anything."

"You said enough, apparently."

"We are kings," Ed shrugged. "It shouldn't be that difficult to find another music box."

"That's not the point."

Her lips rounded to a full pout and she sank down into the water, letting it lap against her chin. This day that had started so well was turning into one of the worst. High King Peter hadn't given her the slightest indication that he knew she even existed nor had King Edmund, though she was only yards away. Carthan, too, seemed oblivious of her presence.

That last thought sent a fresh rage through her veins, unnaturally warming her limbs. One thing was absolutely certain. She would not lose three potential suitors this day.

Her attention was whipped over to Carthan, all the intensity of her gaze boring into the middle of his back. Her sway over him, it seemed, hadn't waned. His brilliant green eyes locked with hers.

She set her lips in a firm line, sending a silent signal that they were leaving.

Now.

Carthan stuttered a farewell to the pair of Queens and he leapt back into the deeper waters, silvery scales glimmering in a flash of sunlight.

Isha followed an instant later, only pausing to glare at the confounded daughters of Eve and sons of Adam.

Really, what had Aslan been thinking bringing them into Narnia?

Just before she disappeared into the white spray Carthan had left in his wake, she thought she heard Queen Lucy say, "You know, I don't think she was listening to me."


	9. Master Burglar

Thank you, thank you so much for being patient! I do apologize for how long this update took me! However, I've already written most of the next one so hopefully it will not take me this long. Goodness sake, it's been two months!

Also, I'm very sorry to those of you whose reviews were replied to twice. The new reply feature is terribly confusing and doesn't inform you when you've replied already. I hope you didn't mind!

Massively-massive thanks to reviewers The Stars Can Shine, Random Dream, DazedinLife, justplaincrazy8, Shadowed Night Sky, ginevra85, rolletti, ProdigiousDiscourse, Window2MySoul, Wildfire2, Tonzura123, Mary, Autumnia, LunaNigra, and barelypassingforsane! You're all amazing for the taking the time to tell me what you thought! The mermaid was one of the most...interesting characters I've ever written so your response was extremely helpful. :)

One last maintenance note and then the actual story will begin. I'm moving my update day from Thursday to Saturday. (So far, not very successful but that's the goal) If I have anything ready it'll appear on Saturday from now on.

Enjoy!

**Chapter 9: Master Burglar**

It was in a mouse's nature to be deathly quiet when the occasion arose.

Conn was not in the least an exception to that rule. In fact, he was the sole provider of fact for such a line.

He was the Master Burglar for his nest. They referred to him as merely one of the scroungers but if they only knew his hunting grounds they would instantly name him head of the pack. But as his honor forbade him from boasting over such a trivial thing, the knowledge remained in his paws alone. However, it did not take from the thrill of the hunt.

For while most mice scavenged unwanted scraps, he had the full bounty of Cair Paravel's kitchens at his beck and call.

The entry was simple. Cair Paravel was a high traffic area, visitors from near and far arriving at her gates on an almost daily basis. And with such attention being paid to nobles, very few guards paid attention to the dusty cobbles beneath their feet.

From there it was a simple matter of timing. The guards walked a pattern that, if carefully planned, could be exploited at exactly the correct moment. Once he'd snuck into the main wings all that remained was to follow his nose. The mouth-watering scents wafting from the food left to cool overnight was far reaching. Basil and thyme, onion and tomato, but most of all the aroma of fresh bread filled the warm air and led him straight to his objective.

The kitchen was a wide room with massive ovens and long tables. Great baskets of potatoes, onions, and garlic rested on the floor by barrels of oats and flour. Strips of smoked ham and peppers hung to dry by the fireplace. Sage, rosemary, and countless other herbs decorated the long rafters.

He hadn't even begun to explore the larder just beyond the kitchen. He hadn't the need. Thick wheels of golden cheese in a leather bound chest were his main source of pillaging.

And pillage he would, in peace and quiet.

Conn had learned that the sweeps cleaned before dawn, before even the cooks were up to ensure that the job was done before the chimney flue could become warm from the day's work. To avoid being bothered, he slunk in just after the midnight watch had begun.

As long as he did not tarry past the third bell, he came and went entirely unseen.

He darted along the cool, well-laid stones on the floor, keeping always to the shadows, and approached the chest. A quick hop and he scurried towards the chest fastenings. He was halfway through tugging the leather from the buckles when the fresh scent of bread filled his nose.

Face upturned and nose twitching, he sought out the source. For one of his keen talent, he found it within moments because spread out over the largest table was an abundance of scones, plump loaves, tarts, and cookies.

Conn's eyes widened and his mind began to calculate how much he could make off with without the cooks noticing. The leather satchel across his back would hold plenty and his stealth would keep his edible treasures safe. But he couldn't have a curious cook discover his hunting grounds, not when the most beautiful mouse in the nest was taking more and more notice of him with each treasure he returned with.

All in all, he supposed he could gather the crumbs from the three braided loaves and perhaps one or two scones. The cherry embellished scones in particular looked mouth-watering.

The soft tread of shuffling steps echoed down the stone hallways and Conn froze, listening closely. The noises didn't sound like the cooks. Their tread was heavier, yet faster.

This tread sounded as though the owner was weary and not in any rush at all.

Conn twitched, his ears perking. Curiosity finally overcame him as the silence became deafening. He scrambled forward a yard, carefully peeking around the corner and staring out into the wide kitchen.

A dark haired son of Adam had entered the room.

Conn shrank back to ensure that the light gray of his fur was hidden completely in the shadow cast by a flour barrel, reaching into the deep recesses of his mind in search of a name for the weary figure meters away.

The dark-haired one. The one Aslan had redeemed from the Witch. Ah, yes, he remembered now.

Edmund.

Somehow discovering his name fissured the weight of wariness settling in Conn's bones. As he watched, the feeling shattered completely. The King was less prepared to spot a master burglar than the hapless gate guards.

King Edmund dragged a stool across the wood floor to a table in the center of the room, slumped down, hands sliding into the dark tangles of his hair, and sighed. Although the scones in front of him smelled tantalizing he stared at them, his gaze glassy and somehow very far away.

Conn suddenly found himself briefly wishing he'd waited until later to raid the kitchen. Disgruntled cooks were easier to handle than this. After all, upon discovering a mouse, the cooks only set traps, and traps, while inconvenient, were considerably easier than facing a brooding King.

And it wasn't as if he could continue collecting his scraps. For then the King would know he was there. Then Conn would feel a burglar's honor to remain. One did not run from a King, one stayed and faced the fury.

In this case, King Edmund would eventually quit the kitchen and return to his rooms, and Conn, if he had remained undiscovered, would find his way back to the nest with the crumbs.

Therefore, he waited, quieting his breath, and refusing to allow his nervous anticipation to give away his position with an ill-timed twitch.

At first, the son of Adam did nothing, merely watched the unseen horizon. His skin was pale and there were dark smudges under his eyes. Another exhale and he reached for a raisin studded scone.

His hand was hovering over a second when a thump startled both King Edmund and Conn. A slender, beautiful daughter of Eve entered the kitchen instead. She was too tall to be the youngest…Queen Susan then.

She, too, appeared slightly frayed at the edges, her hair hanging limp about her shoulders. When her pale eyes fell on King Edmund they widened and then immediately narrowed. "You are supposed to be asleep."

King Edmund didn't seem disturbed in the slightest. He grinned up at her. "And you're not?"

In response, Queen Susan sank down into the chair beside him, snatching up a blueberry scone. She fingered the deep blue fruits but did not partake of them.

Conn felt the empty weight of the satchel on his back and shifted a paw. The third bell could not be far off and he would not be denied his prize…However, the two were in such an arrangement that his position would be compromised if he moved beyond the dark cloak of the flour barrel.

"Do you…do you miss it? Home, I mean." Queen Susan spoke quietly, the dulcet tones of her voice edged with concern.

"Sometimes." The King shrugged, his eyes black as they stared at the morsel. Conn easily spotted the deception through the veneer of ambivalence.

A sudden feeling of apprehension at overhearing such a private conversation overcame Conn. After all, they could be on the verge of unknowingly revealing a state secret. He was only here for a few crumbs of sweetened bread, not what troubled thoughts plagued the monarchs in the dark watches of the night. Nevertheless, there seemed no way of escape.

"The lioness today at court, Abeni…she sounded like Mum."

Conn had never heard in all the lore about the four monarchs of a time where they were ever referred to as children. But in that moment, the Queen and King before him appeared as small as the little curled in the warmth of the nest.

The Queen continued and as she spoke she appeared to shrink, shoulders caving forward, voice quieter than ever. "Mum would have wakened us right about now."

"With itchy school uniforms in hand."

"She used to stay up half the night pressing them."

"Still itched." King Edmund's words were in jest but his tone alluded to a deep sense of loss for a loved one.

Silence hung over the kitchen and Conn felt last of the adrenaline of the hunt drain away. This morning was turning into a test of patience, not cunning or athleticism or bravery. Patience was a rather dull virtue, in his opinion. Necessary occasionally, but dull nonetheless.

And that silence was only breached by the quiet shuffle of another pair of feet. The two straightened a touch but didn't seem overly surprised to see a shorter daughter of Eve enter, fingers pulling the collar of her nightdress closer.

King Edmund was silent for a half a beat, running his finger tips over the sugary scone's edge, then said, "These scones would be particularly good with a tall glass of milk, don't you think?"

"Edmund." The youngest Queen's brows knotted, and Conn received the most distinct impression that a scolding was about to take place. "Do you really expect me to believe you and Susan were down here eating scones while-"

"Sit with us, Lu?" Queen Susan gestured to an open spot at her side and neatly ended the reprimand before it had really begun.

"Actually, I think I will." She dragged a short barrel to the table and plopped down. "Cinnamon scone, please."

The requested morsel was handed over and Queen Lucy broke it in half, beginning to eat the smaller of the two. At their younger sister's entrance, Queen Susan and King Edmund began to make a show of eating their scones as well.

"Couldn't sleep?" Queen Susan tried to hide her concern, forcing a feathery lightness, and Conn observed that this family would be an absolute failure on a reconnaissance operation. They merely could not hide their true thoughts.

The little Queen nodded and silence fell heavily over the room as they clearly struggled for words. Suddenly, Queen Lucy spoke, "I wonder what Mum would think of us being royalty."

King Edmund and Queen Susan both straightened an inch, sharing a glance that contained a private conference. But neither seemed to come to a conclusion as they did not respond immediately, preferred instead to hold their tongues. Again, it was Queen Susan who would rally first, though the effort was weary and thinly held in place.

"I'm not sure, Lu." Her sister turned the scone over and over in her fingers, the light from the tapers reflecting off the smooth skin of the blueberries.

Conn could only imagine the moist flavor of the bread and the round dark fruit imbedded in it. Already his mouth was filling with saliva, his mind's eye swarmed with images of sugary delicacies.

He unlaced the hood of his pack and smoothed the wrinkles away, prepared to gather the remainders…if only they would just leave. The cheese stores were just behind him, scarcely a few steps away, but they were such a second-rate pick.

"Would she be proud of us, do you think?"

Shoulder's tightening, Conn wondered if he could make the dash to the store of oats without the monarchs noticing. He was only here for the morsels. What he was getting was not the aforementioned morsels.

"Oh Lu…of course, she would."

"Really?"

"Of course!" King Edmund had none of the low, comforting tones of his sister, only a trickle of laughter.

Conn couldn't help wondering how many awkward moments would pass before this family would leave him in peace to gather the crumbs for his nest.

Queen Susan cleared her throat. "How's your scone?"

"Mum would have added more cinnamon." The little Queen reflected after taking a small bite.

"Perhaps we could tell the cook to add a bit more then?" Queen Susan tried yet again to lighten the mood.

Her efforts were duly ignored as shuffling yet again echoed down the corridor and another figure entered the kitchen. His shoulders were stooped and the lines about his eyes spoke of long nights of lost sleep.

"That's where all the scones get to." He mentioned dryly, motioning to the morsel in King Edmund's hand.

For the younger King's part, his impervious nature hadn't changed at all. He neatly slid an overturned barrel over to the table, scooting his stool a bit farther down to make room. The move was so swiftly and surreptitiously done that had not Conn trained himself to notice such easy actions he might have missed it entirely.

King Peter dragged a hand through the tangled strands of his hair and collapsed down next to them. "Not interested getting rest tonight, are we?"

"Come on, Pete. It's not like you were getting any sleep either."

"Ed…" King Peter snatched up the closest scone and took a bite.

"He's right you know." Queen Susan seemed much inclined to holding the scone rather than eating it.

The King wrinkled his nose, setting the cinnamon dusted scone aside. "Lu, pass me a raisin one, won't you?"

"Here you are, Peter. I don't think you'll find them much better than the cinnamon ones though. Ed scarcely taken two bites of his."

The mentioned King fidgeted in his seat and then he mumbled, "they don't taste quite right."

Several minutes later while Conn was still trying to discover a way to reach the scones, King Peter shoved the scone back, crumbs flaking off and powdering the wooden table. "I think you might be correct, Lu. Something isn't quite right."

"Mum would have fixed them." The little Queen's confidence radiated across the room but even in that Conn felt the strangest remorse coat the back of his mouth.

And it was this final moment that Conn finally let his objective fade. Cheese would have to be his trophy this night. However, he would like to see any of the pack bring back cheese as fine as what lay in Cair Paravel.

He'd filled his pack with creamy tidbits of a pale cheese when the siblings returned to their conversation, adjusting to the weight and mentally preparing himself for the excursion back to nest.

Reluctance permeated Queen Susan's words. "I suppose we've got to head back. They'll be wondering where we are soon."

Her younger brother stifled a yawn. "Why? There's no use in trying to sleep. We'll be called for within the hour, I warrant."

"An hour is an hour. Come on."

"Couldn't we just call a national holiday?" Queen Lucy's face, innocently hopeful, gazed up at her siblings.

King Peter's smile was wry. "I think they'd need a bit more notice than this."

For the first time, Conn heard King Edmund sound free from the dark mood that had followed him. "Exactly, Lu. You've got to schedule holidays at least one month in advance."

Conn shouldered his pack and made his unseen journey out of Cair Paravel's kitchens, vowing to return at the first bell in the future. Not only were chimney squirrels to be avoided but brooding Kings and Queens as well, for they said the strangest things.

What was a holiday?


	10. Serving Maid

Thanks very much to reviewers ginevra85, DazedinLife, Window2MySoul, Wildfire2, Mary, Fairies-Are-Real, justplaincrazy8, ProdigiousDiscourse, and Autumnia! I'm always so pleased to read your responses! :D

This was written partly in the waiting area of an airport so I do apologize for any mistakes there might be. If you spot one, please message me and I'll fix it as soon as I can. :)

Oh! And if you would like a certain character to appear in Sempiternal Belligerence, please visit the poll on my profile page and vote! Thanks for your input!

**Chapter 10: Banquet Maid**

Archenland had never seen a day so fine.

Anvard's keep had been swept and polished from the tip of the turrets down to the very potato cellars. Nobles had primped and brushed their gowns and waistcoats for days in preparation for this dewy, brilliant spring morning.

Today, Archenland would receive the four Kings and Queens of Narnia.

And Anya was among those feeling the immense pressure to impress the monarchs. Her duty was to see to it that the Narnian royalty's cups did not run dry, an honor that had left her entire family glowing with pride.

Who could enjoy the savory meats and bread before them when their lips were parched? Of course, as she'd been strictly lectured over and over again, she was to remain as unobtrusive and invisible as possible in her task.

In the matron of banquet's words, "nourishment was to appear not be served". Anya was also assured in the strictest of terms that to be seen was to be shamed and Anvard would not be shamed under any circumstances.

Since the visit was one of the most important in the history of country, most were on edge. A treaty would be formally created between the two nations, further solidifying agreements previously made

Agreements that had saved the Archenland from starvation.

Without the Narnian's aid in form of seeds, water, and blankets, Anya was not sure if she would still be among the living. Her village, Stokemount, in particular had been hit particularly hard by the spring storms and most of their stock had been swept away.

An appeal had been sent to the Narnians, reputed to be a generous and blessed people, and they had not been disappointed. Carts of supplies had arrived shortly thereafter and a new alliance was forged.

That was six months ago. Now Stokemount would show the Narnians that their generosity had not been given in vain. The bounty of Archenland would be served to them this night.

The first course passed smoothly, the chatter of voices and the strum of the minstrel's harp setting a pleasant hum about the banquet hall. In fact, it was not until the third course that Anya began to notice something most peculiar.

While most dining began to leave larger and larger portions of food on their plate, the four Narnian monarchs continued to clean their plates, draining their goblets at the end of each dish. The cook was informed of the predicament, and a new dish was prepared, served, and consumed.

Anvard's nobility was now eating entirely out of politeness, Anya was sure of it. But the Narnians pressed on.

King Peter drank the last of his wine and moved to set it back when he suddenly paused, as if struck with sudden inspiration, he suddenly paused, spun the golden chalice around, and replaced it rim down.

Anya waited until the King's attention was returned to the conversation and the food. Then she carefully slid her hand onto the chalice's cool surface, flipped the cup over, and poured the wine, taking great care to remain unobtrusive and invisible.

A minute later the oddest look overcame King Peter's face as he caught sight of the ruby red liquid sparkling in the depth of the chalice.

His clear reaction could only be surprise at the sumptuous bounty Archenland had been blessed with. What else could there be? Anya had seen the piled carts with her own eyes. Such a feast could only be normal.

But as Anya watched it became clear that something was not quite right.

The Queens' cheeks were gaining a greenish tinge, and King Peter's eyes were widening. Only King Edmund seemed able to take another bite, and even his spoon listlessly chased a portion of chicken as if unable or unwilling to hold it.

She'd never seen anyone, not even her betrothed, eat so much in one sitting. Queen Lucy alone had eaten enough to feed a sparrow family for an entire winter.

King Peter held the bridge of his nose and blew out a long breath. Queen Tziera caught his gaze, obvious concern suffusing her features, and he quickly replaced the dazed stupor with a bright smile. Another bite traveled to his mouth and Anya's astonishment increased.

Narnia must be a land very blessed, indeed, to support banquets such as this. Archenland was fortunate that they were only staying for five days or their newly stocked cellars might be emptied.

Anya shifted the increasingly light pitcher in her hands and leaned in to fill the younger King's chalice. She would have thought they hadn't cared for the mild ruby juice but they had drained their chalices eleven times together, and that alone proved her instinct incorrect.

He reacted much like his brother.

At that moment the youngest Queen puffed out a long breath, like a child who has been spun around one too many times.

The Anvard nobles cleared their throats uncomfortably, unsure of whether to sigh themselves or to ignore it.

An clumsy round of applause filtered around the table as the court musician finished his song, the last strums of the music elevating the awkward atmosphere at the head table.

Anya's shoulder was tapped lightly and she turned to see another serving maid offer her another pitcher. She accepted and nodded her thanks. It was while moving back to the table that Anya saw something peculiar.

The faun that had accompanied them conversed in the shadows for a moment with the towering centaur before trotting softly, white-faced, to Queen Lucy's side and whispered a few words in her ear.

"Oh." A look of understanding dawned over her face. Nudging her sister's elbow, she brandished her fork and deliberately placed it atop her the mounds of food on her plate.

Swiftly, the unwanted portions were gathered up and whisked away by the waiting servants.

Queen Susan's eyes widened with the same insight and she, too, placed her fork over the venison, watching in what could only be described as relief as the dishes were carried away mere seconds later.

King Edmund was the next to move, dropping his fork onto his plate faster than if he'd been burned by it, and shoved his chair back an inch. High King Peter was one half second behind him, hands falling on his stomach and a low moan escaping his lips.

The Anvard nobles immediately motioned for their own plates to be taken away and the feast drew to a close, as quickly as Anya had ever seen.

One last toast was offered and then the room began to empty, beginning with the royalty.

Anya did not wait for the wash maids to gather the long linen tablecloths. Her back and feet ached from the long hours. She only had to deliver the remaining wine and then she would return to her room in the servant's quarter for a quick supper and her soft bed.

The kitchen's flurry of activity had been notched up as the used dishes came flooding in, towering stacks of filthy porcelain and pewter. Anya dodged them all with the grace of one who had done such things many times before.

Her wine was replaced in the cool depth of the wine cellar and she exited the kitchen before she would be swept up and placed elbow deep in soap suds.

Normally Anya would have taken the long route to the servant's quarters but this evening as she stepped along the glossy marble flooring temptation struck and she caved.

The royal bedchambers were off limits to most of the servants but Anya's fiancé was one of the guards that paced the hallways and as such she knew many of the patrols. She'd only taken the route two or three times, afraid to cost her fiancé or his friends their post.

Tonight she would chance fate.

She was nearly to the back staircase, just one bedroom door left to pass when voices echoed down the hallway.

"I'll be happy if I don't eat for a month." The voice was deep and it took Anya several tense moments to place the voice as King Edmund's.

She shuffled down the steps as fast as her limping gait would take her, but found that the faster she walked the louder the voices became.

What were these Narnians doing using the servant's stairwell?

"I think I ate a whole chicken myself." Queen Lucy seemed to groan the words, and, though Anya was on the verge of panicking as she spun and scampered up the stairs, she thought back to the meal and found she agreed with the daughter of Eve.

The monarchs burst into a frenzy of high pitched laughter and Anya ran faster.

"I'll bet you did, Lu." Queen Susan was still giggling softly.

Anya crossed the last step and froze. The Narnians were never on the staircase. They were just down the hall, moving slowly towards their bedchambers. Her weary mind must have played tricks on her.

"You can't have eaten as much as Pete though! How many plates did you eat?" King Edmund swatted at his brother, one of the blows landing lightly on Peter's abdomen.

The elder son of Adam immediately groaned and seized his stomach. "Oh, Ed, for the love of Aslan…"

And on that note, Anya turned a final time to tramp down the stairs, wondering yet again at the peculiarity of the Narnian monarchs.


	11. Philip

Thank you so much for the reviews! You have all been so faithful! Justplaincrazy8, Autumnia, Tonzura123, ProdigiousDiscourse, Shadowed Night Sky, rolletti, LunaNigra, Shizuku Tsukishima749, Dazed . in . Life, and Wildfire2, thank you so much for your kind comments!

I apologize for the wait! I have been writing, really, but the only outcome is that I've become spectacularly good at starting new projects and even better at leaving them unfinished. If I can manage to complete them though, several new chapters and possibly a new story should appear relatively soon.

For now, please enjoy!

This chapter is dedicated to Shadowed Night Sky as she asked for an appearance from Philip. :)

**Chapter 11: Philip**

It wasn't entirely unheard of.

Rare, certainly, but not impossible. However, most were tales of little importance. Abusive hermits, snarling wenches, and occasionally a naïve child.

None held such repercussions. For instead of an unmarked grave or a grieving family to leave behind, Philip, in his carelessness, would have an entire kingdom to face.

Not only that, but how would he possibly manage to explain to three very possessive siblings how he had 'misplaced' Edmund the Just, King of Narnia.

To say he had intentionally done so would have been preposterous. A small part of his mind whispered that he might have such accusations to deal with from the more passionate members of court. Another part of him proclaimed that the day wasn't over just yet and already he was losing hope.

Though the emotional side of him wanted to listen to the first voice, the rational part of his brain took control. Running the day's events though his mind for what could only be the fiftieth time, he searched for anything he might have missed, some lost clue that would explain the absence.

The morning had begun simply. A great hunt had been announced to provide food for the harvest feast. The forest had been carefully sectioned off; making certain that no talking animals would be in the forest while the court searched for the day's meal.

Mushrooms, berries, wild herbs, and nuts were gathered by fauns accompanying Queen Lucy. Philip remembered the chirping of nymph's voices as they flitted through the trees on their petal toes. Beavers, foxes, leopards and squirrels pointed out the most tender roots, hopping from grove to grove.

King Peter, King Edmund, and Queen Susan had gone along for the morning but after the noon meal of crusty bread and fresh cheese wedges, they split from the group. King Peter claimed, with a cheeky smile, that they would search out the actual meal.

Philip allowed King Edmund to climb onto his back and then he trotted towards Stelia, the Unicorn that looked after King Peter.

The forest was cool and King Edmund had forgone the usual packs that were apparently necessary for sons of Adam to strap onto the saddle, opting instead for a light blanket and a small water sack.

At first they traveled at a smooth pace, moving steady into the cool boughs of the forest. Slowly the dryads and wood fairies began to drift off, the woods growing quiet and dark.

The steady beat of his hooves striking the soft ground and the crushed pine needles beneath them filled the air with a sharp bite, as if the energy pulsating amongst the party wasn't enough. Already Philip could feel Edmund tensing in anticipation of a chase.

The first sign of prey was the snap of a branch about a hundred yards to the southeast. King Peter had motioned for the group to halt, their breathing becoming loud in the still forest.

A silent debate of sorts seemed to pass between the siblings, something Philip had come to rue, and then, suddenly, Edmund had dismounted.

Philip had been protecting King Edmund for three years now and he should have seen that first, doomed sign of trouble. Sons of Adam had an uncanny streak of foolish stubbornness in them and despite all his lectures, sense it seemed could not be talked into them.

That fact, however, didn't stop Philip from wondering when riders would finally learn that horses simply knew better than they did.

Were they really so arrogant that they thought a smooth gait was in their control? Indeed, seldom was the rider in control of anything, though a fine horse would never let his rider know such a thing.

But he was digressing from his tale.

King Peter had looked as though he wanted to dismount as well, but Stelia did not let him, moving in short, smooth steps to keep him on her back. Not for the first or last time, Philip wished he had her prudence.

Another rustle of leaves and the brothers perked. "I think we've got ourselves a hunt, Peter." Edmund whispered.

"I think you're right." Peter reached down and patted Stelia's neck, presumably hoping to coerce her into letting him down. She wasn't fooled and he could only look to his brother and say, "Off to it, then?"

"After you." Edmund held out a respectful hand and added in a most disrespectful tone, "Age before beauty, you know."

"We'll see how you feel after I catch the stag, shall we?" King Peter's eyes goaded the challenge, one that would never be turned down by the younger brother.

Philip clearly remembered the feeling of panic snaking around his heart. If all sons of Adam were so competitive, it was no wonder they were rarely found.

Stelia leapt away, her powerful hind legs propelling the High King out of sight in seconds, and Edmund shook his head. "You would think that Peter would have learned by now that charging in headlong just scares the stag away."

"And your strategy is the better of the two?" Philip couldn't have helped the slight lilt of humor to his voice.

"We caught something, didn't we?"

"Of course, your majesty caught a cold, I believe your kind calls it, and I caught a bushel of brambles."

King Edmund had wrinkled his nose, pushing aside a wayward branch and traversing into the thick, late summer foliage. "It wasn't half bad if Susan hadn't insisted I drink that medicine."

During the next several hours, Philip trailed behind his rider and was lulled farther and farther into an empty sense of security. The day looked as though the results would involve another visit to the stable boy's brushes, less afternoons out riding, and King Edmund's apologies for his absence sounding strangely wet and nasally.

The clouds above them, partially visible through the tree branches, slowly grew dark and a deep rumble in the distance caused King Edmund to pull his tunic closer and throw a quick grin in Philip's direction. "A cloak might have been a good idea."

"Indeed." Philip increased his pace, moving close enough that the chilly wind didn't buffet the son of Adam from all sides.

They traipsed on, even as the clouds broke and a gentle patter of rain grew to a pouring torrent of droplets. Soon, Philip was straining to see a few feet ahead of his hooves.

King Edmund seemed unaffected, intent on finding the stag, though the trail had been entirely washed away. When they approached the opening of a little valley, the King held back a hand. "Did you hear that?"

"No, your majesty." It was difficult to hear anything over the pounding of the storm.

"Sounded like Peter. Hang on, I'll go see if I can find him. Stay right here." Quick as a flick of a tail, King Edmund had disappeared behind the sheets of rain.

And Philip was left to wait.

That was where he stood now, sodden, worried, and very cross.

He supposed about two hours had passed and the rain had not lightened up. Slowly his weight had bore him down into the soil and mud now covered the tops of his forelegs. Water had collected in his mane and tail, leaving it to stick unpleasantly to his forehead, neck, and legs.

High King Peter, Queen Susan, and Queen Lucy must be frantic by now, he thought glumly. What a fine steed he'd turned out to be. Lost his rider…the thought echoed through his head again, thrumming horribly.

A particularly loud clap of thunder struck only a few miles away and Philip felt the urge to move increase exponentially. The only thing that really hindered him was the thought that King Edmund might possibly return while he was searching and then where would they be?

Another strike of thunder and Philip lurched forward. Dash it all, he was done waiting.

Remembering the tall ferns King Edmund had pushed his way past, Philip trotted in that direction, keeping his head low and ears back to catch any calls for help.

At least a quarter hour passed and Philip had nothing more to show for his efforts than a burning scrape along his side where a pine tree had torn through his coat. To try to find King Edmund's trail was nothing short of impossible and even his scent had been completely washed away.

There were no cries for aid, nothing but the cruel, merciless rain.

A part of him wondered if the King had found the rest of party. He could even now be huddled under a warm blanket with his sisters at his side. But as much as that image comforted Philip it did not explain the twisting, icy touch of foreboding deep in his bones.

Something was wrong.

And as much as he wanted to help, he didn't know what else to do next besides trot on into the raging face of nature, working out in ever widening circles from the spot where King Edmund had left him.

Time trickled past and the tension built in his muscles. Where could his rider be? Surely, King Edmund couldn't have gone much farther than this…

Philip kept walking for an innumerable amount of time and when despair's fingers tangled about his throat he heard the clatter of stones against the clamor.

"King Edmund!" He fought the cloying embrace of guilt, despair, and shame loosen. "King Edmund!"

"Philip?" The voice was weak and slightly astonished but it belonged to the dark haired son of Adam he'd been charged with.

"Your majesty!" Philip moved closer to where he thought the voice had originated from and paused. The panic had faded but the darkness hadn't and his eyes could not decipher his rider's form amongst the streams of water.

"I'm in the gully, just below you. Watch the edge."

An edge that Philip had heard too often in his rider's voice on too many battlefields triggered a new bout of questions. Sons of Adam often had this effect on Aslan's creatures, he learned. Such puzzling, frustrating, accident-prone beings. "Are you hurt, my lord?"

"It's this infernal rain. Slipped on the ridge and tumbled down here. I would have climbed back out but I can't get anywhere with my blasted ankle. I think it's been twisted."

"How far have you fallen?"

"I'd say about four or five yards."

Oh bother. This would not be an easy. Philip strained his eyes to get a better view and found that the night consumed much of the visibility that might have been had. The storm tore away what remained and only a few meager shreds of deeper shadow showed that a gully even existed.

"Philip?"

"Yes, my lord?"

"You don't happen to know where Peter and the rest of the party have got to, do you?"

"No, my lord. I have not seen them."

Over the years, Philip had learnt that sons of Adam could command a vocabulary of very distasteful language when they set their minds to it. High King Peter snarled oaths while visiting the healer's tent on a battlefield, guttural, sharp pronunciations of the foul words. King Edmund muttered them as if they would burn other's ears, yet they were very precisely chosen. There were three words in particular that he favored.

The word choice this night spoke volumes of the pain the young King was experiencing.

"My lord?"

"Philip, I'd appreciate not being lectured about my language this evening. Lucy would have a fit and Su would give me one of her looks and Peter would tell me to visit the washstand, I'm quite aware."

Philip wisely disregarded the comment and stepped forward gingerly. The rocks were quite slippery with mud but if he could just find the edge then perhaps…

The edge came rather abruptly and had Philip not been paying very careful attention he'd no doubt have slipped down into the gully himself. He could smell the fresh earth, torn asunder by the storm and King Edmund's weight. Such a hill would be difficult to climb back up for a hale creature until the dirt had been hardened by the sun.

As much as Philip did not want to admit it, it looked as though his rider wasn't going anywhere this night. Of course, he was free of the gully and could go for help but he knew only Aslan's blessing had brought him to his rider's side and it was unlikely that anyone else would be found while the storm still raged.

That left him with a particularly wet, muddy, and entirely bothersome course of action. King Edmund would receive his death of sniffling if left alone.

Closing his eyes and wondering why he'd ever volunteered to carry a Son of Adam, Philip stepped forward gingerly.

Immediately he was sliding down a slushy embankment, the incline steep but mercifully smooth. Scraping his hooves backward he managed to slow himself to a more reasonable pace but a graceful stop looked to be impossible.

"Philip?" Edmund's voice was panicked.

Philip pretended not to hear and kept his onward trek into the unknown at the forefront of his mind. Several large rocks protruded from the hill and only by sheer luck was he able to avoid smashing into them. That, of course, sent him careening into a young sapling instead. His bulk easily snapped the poor thing in half but not before the wind had been punched from his lungs and an aching pain spread over his side.

Stumbling and nearly blind with flying mud and rain, he felt the ground suddenly curve upwards and he slid to a halt as his momentum ceased. Apparently he'd reached the base of the gully.

"Philip?"

Philip fought to regain his breath. "Yes…my lord?"

"Did you…" the young King seemed unsure of what to say, "are you in the gully?"

"The danger of a cold, as you call them, was too great a peril for you to face alone." As Philip recalled the young sisters had gone into a frenzy during the last bought of the illness and he could only think it a grave and serious matter if it caused the entire castle staff to want to tear their hair out.

A snort of laughter echoed towards him.

"My lord?" Philip was unsure of what to do now. If possible, the darkness was deeper here and he had not a clue as to where his rider had fallen.

"I'm just ahead of you, by the rotten stump."

How the son of Adam could see, Philip didn't know but he took the proffered directions and limped forward, the fire in his veins cooling from his unexpected adventures.

"Just here, Philip."

A hand snagged his mane and he turned to find, in a flash of lightning, King Edmund holding himself upright by a worn tree stump.

"You look a little worse for the wear, Philip."

Well accustomed by now to the King's dry sense of humor, Philip merely responded in kind, "I might say the same of you, my lord."

Though he couldn't see his rider's face he knew a smile would be pricking the young son of Adam's lips.

"I don't suppose that we'll be getting back to Cair Paravel tonight."

"No, my lord, but I believe that the fallen tree behind us might lend some shelter."

The night passed slowly, each moment an aching, freezing, sodden torment that they would both be only too happy to leave behind. Philip couldn't be entirely sure but he thought his rider fell into a light slumber once or twice, each time waking trembling from the cold and grumpier than ever.

The storm slowed to a gentle shower of rain by midnight and a few short hours later it had ceased entirely. Pale dawn did little warm the earth, the biting chill in the breeze stirring up the damp autumn leaves and hardening the muddy ground.

King Edmund was scowling at the stump Philip had found him at the night before, his eyes bleary with weariness and his skin pale.

"My lord…" Philip wasn't sure he wanted to bear a rider that had the temperament of a thistle.

King Edmund merely lifted a hand and pointed towards a narrow ledge that wound up the opposite gully wall. In the darkness, the bushes obscured the dirt pathway but it was clearly there under the rosy sun's rays. It would be steep but certainly manageable.

The pair started forlornly at it for a long moment, hating the fact that they had spent the night cold and miserable.

"Well, there's really nothing for it." Pushing himself up off the rough back, King Edmund shuffled towards the opposite side of the gully.

Philip saw the obvious pain on his rider's stiff movements and scrambled to stand. His muscles ached with the sudden strain, however, he couldn't let his rider suffer any more than he already had. It was his duty. And so, he moved decisively to intercept the King's progress. "Cair Paravel, then, my lord?"

"I should think so, Philip." King Edmund tangled a hand into Philip's mane and mounted, leaning against him heavily.

A long moment of silence passed as they worked their way out of the gorge until King Edmund spoke, "Did you find the stag?"

Surely his ears had deceived him. "Truly, King Edmund?"

"What? Did you or didn't you?"

"I'm afraid I had other matters on my mind."

"Hmm…" He sighed pitifully and sank further against Philip's shoulders. "Peter's never going to let me hear the end of it."


	12. Assistant to the Court Physician

Surprise! A new chapter!

Many thanks to reviewers rolletti, Metonomia, Autumnia, jdeppgirl4, Shadowed Night Sky, Faires-Are-Real, Lady Merlin, LunaNigra, and justplaincrazy8! :)

**Chapter 12: Apprentice to the Court Physician**

Steaming water was not an easy thing to carry and Nysha was carrying a whole kettle full.

It buckled and spun with each step taken and the threat of scalded skin beneath her hide was not a pleasant prospect, causing her actions to become overly sensitive. Her problem was also compounded as she carried, in her other hand, a writing tablet containing a leather-bound book, a slender quill, and a pot of ink.

Falling flat on her nose, a likely occurrence, simply wouldn't do.

In her defense, working all four of her legs through the masses of Cair Paravel's back hallways was no easy task. Certainly other centaurs managed just fine but Nysha had never been like other centaurs.

When other centaurs had perfected a smooth canter, easily sending an arrow through a target at a hundred yards, she was still trying to manage keeping her arrow on the bow's string and walk at the same time.

She seemed to have wooden stumps for fingers, and her long, gangly legs did her no favors when navigating small, cramped hallways filled with cross serving maids. Her mother assured her that she would grow used to her legs and in a few short seasons she would have stallions asking for her hand.

Beneath her bay hide, she was not so confident as yet another serving maid darted past, heedless of the boiling water only inches from spilling over onto her head.

And it was not just any boiling water she bore. For unlike some of the creatures in the hallway, she bore boiling water sent for by the Court Physician to be used in the care of King Edmund.

She wasn't aware of the specifics yet but she had a feeling that they were going to be treating another cold. Mint leaves and plenty of steaming water seemed to be the only solution and so every two hours she would make the journey. The knowledge gave her little pleasure.

Perhaps it was another ailment. One that could be healed with less boiling water. A twisting sensation in her belly told her it probably wasn't so.

To be fully prepared however she'd carried along the book, quill and ink. If they were dealing with a new illness it would need to be documented.

As it was, Rinklerhim, the revered Court Physician, was the only one actually treating the sons of Adam or the daughters of Eve. Nysha found that she had little to complain about when one late evening she thought through the ramifications of spoiling a remedy and worsening a King or Queen's condition.

And such a mistake was likely as the sources of information had been entirely depleted on sons of Adam and daughters of Eve.

Despite what many might believe, sons of Adam and daughters of Eve posed a great problem for physicians.

Massive tomes had collected the knowledge of centuries, creatures of all races cataloguing the care of their ailments. But not one record spoke of sons of Adam or daughters of Eve.

Nysha, on the instruction of her master, kept a growing notebook, chronicling the symptoms of the illness, the remedy used, and the results of aforementioned treatments. Careful drawings of the plants used, detailed notes, and meticulous observation were all a crucial part of such documentation.

Her handwriting was thin and wobbled but it was legible, although Rinklerhim had copied over a few pages into a clearer scrawl. As much as she would like the task to pass to him, he had a patient to examine and couldn't be bothered with sheets of parchment and ink while measuring a pulse.

Other tasks had been tried and she had found she lacked sufficient inherent grace to complete many of them.

She was positively terrible at grinding powders. Her hands would inevitably get tangled, the mixture would spill, and she would spend the remainder of the day sneezing. Even if, through some miracle granted by Aslan, she managed to control her blocky fingers and produce a powder, it was grainy and uneven.

Chopping herbs was occasionally possible, only when her eyes couldn't be bothered by the pungent odors undoubtedly swirling into the air with each downfall of the blade.

However, she'd always been able to instinctually discern what herbs to apply, her touch was calming, and while her fingers might struggle to do her bidding her mind worked quickly and efficiently.

And for that reason Rinklerhim had taken her on as an apprentice. He'd told her with a weary smile that she'd learn to do the rest with time.

That was two years ago and she was as inept as ever, though she had managed to get to the royal wing of Cair Paravel that housed the private quarters of the monarchs without spilling the boiling water.

The guards on duty stepped aside, the glimmer of their weapons making Nysha move a little faster, and then she was standing in King Edmund's bedchamber.

As seen countless times, the afflicted member of the family was tucked up to their chin with warm blankets and crowded around him were the others, each giving their solemn, unspoken support to the one in pain.

It seemed King Edmund was the one swathed in wool this morning. Queen Lucy sat only inches from the blankets, her brother's hand caught in her own, and her wide eyes watching the physician's every move. King Peter stood at the end of the bed by Queen Susan and both seemed tense, their expressions pinched and their shoulders taut.

Rinklerhim was listening to the evenness of the son of Adam's breathing, his aged brow wrinkled with either concern or deep thought. "Nysha? Bring the water here. On the nightstand, there's a good girl."

Nysha had learned long ago that the satyr's keen hearing could decipher different footfalls, and apparently her stride was quite distinctive. She cajoled him into telling her once what exactly he heard and he'd told her with an odd twinkle to his eye, "The sound of a young centaur finding her way in a vast and changing world."

And that world was vast indeed for the twelve feet to the bedside seemed to have swollen to a gaping cavern of snares, each trying to spill the water she bore. She was especially careful stepping onto a warm rug in the center of the room. Only she really knew what havoc those carefully woven carpets could loose on poor unsuspecting centaurs.

Aslan must have been smiling on her that day for she placed the hot water where requested, stepped back, and prepared her writing tablet. All without incident.

"Do you believe it to be serious?" Queen Susan sat at the end of the bed, a warm mug of steaming soup in her hands.

"No, your majesty. A simple cold is all that plagues your brother, though the congestion deep in his chest worries me. A stronger remedy might be necessary."

Nysha quickly uncapped the bottle of ink and scribbled down her master's observations.

"Nysha? How many stems of mint did we require last illness?"

"Four of medium height soaked in hot water to be breathed deeply every two hours."

"Hmm," he ran a hand over his balding head.

While her master reflected, Nysha glanced up at King Edmund. Pale features, haggard circles under his eyes, swollen nose, deep cough, constant sniffing, and under the piles of blankets she saw the unmistakable lump of a bandaged ankle. Her quill worked to record each detail as her mind saw it, the language clear and concise.

From habit she looked to the siblings around the room. It had begun when she noticed that King Edmund always stood by the door when his brother was injured or ill. At first she thought it to be a possessive gesture, bespeaking a protective, deeply seated care for a brother that often found objects were harder than his skull, however as the months passed she noted that the action came from another motive entirely.

High King Peter had been found trying to escape his chambers, twice before a row of stitches had healed properly. No, King Edmund stood at the door to keep his brother in the room.

When King Edmund was ill, High King Peter always stood at the foot of the bed. By now becoming accustomed to their odd behavior, she waited before pronouncing judgment on this procedure.

She found it stemmed from King Edmund's uncontrollable urge to cross his arms and revert to the characteristics of a certain stallion with burrs entangled in his mane. From that position High King Peter could carefully divert the King's demands that the maids stop bringing up hot burners and herbal teas.

Today High King Peter looked usually unkempt.

A full three and one half minutes passed before she realized he was dripping wet. His hair was sodden and his finely sewn tunic clung to his chest.

Apparently she was not the only one to make such an observation at that moment as Queen Susan said softly, "Peter, you said you'd change into something dry and warm once we had Edmund in bed."

"He's not settled yet."

"Peter, you promised." Queen Lucy leveled him with a stare.

Nysha received the strong impression that King Edmund was enjoying the turn of events, particularly the shift of attention, if the grin sweeping across his flushed face was any indication.

High King Peter shifted from foot to foot, a dark scowl settling on his face, until his resolve visibly crumbled. "Fine. But he stays in that bed until I get back."

"I'm not going anywhere, not with this blasted ankle." King Edmund directed a finger towards his bandaged foot, the very air of innocence wreathing his shoulders.

"Su," Peter didn't appear to be convinced.

"Don't worry so. He'll be sulking exactly where he is when you get back. Or have you forgotten that I kept him here for three days while you returned from the peace envoy to Archenland?"

King Edmund's nose wrinkled and he mumbled, "there was three inches of snow outside."

"Ed," Queen Susan stilled him with a significant look, one that would have frozen the most disagreeable patient at their most stubborn moment. "Go on, Pete."

King Edmund looked as though he wanted to add a cheeky remark when Rinklerhim told him to take a deep, slow breath. He made a rather unpleasant face, and did as instructed when the physician remained unaffected.

The door clicked shut behind Peter and Edmund released the breath he'd been directed to hold. "Well, he was in a mood."

"You weren't exactly punctual last night, Ed." Queen Lucy told him sternly.

Edmund shrugged sullenly. "I've been late before."

"Ed, if Philip hadn't found you, you could have…" Queen Susan's eyes turned to the bedspread and a nonexistent wrinkle was smoothed away, "been very seriously hurt."

"It wasn't like I planned it that way." The King's temper flared and Nysha felt the room's temperature increase.

Rinklerhim cleared his throat and stepped down from the bedside. "Nysha, I believe I will go and discuss matters with the herbalist in the kitchens. Finish recording the particulars in the journal and then wait for my return. I shouldn't be but ten minutes."

Nysha gulped. Was he really leaving her alone? With a feuding family of monarchs? It seemed she would never have the chance to greet the dawn of her twentieth naming day.

The monarchs nodded politely to the physician as he took his leave and when the door closed, Queen Lucy turned a molten glare on her brother. "He didn't sleep a wink. None of us did."

"Lucy…" Queen Susan interceded. "He was worried about you. Just let him fuss for a few hours. He'll soon find something else to attend to and you'll have peace and quiet to recover in."

"Recover? It's just a measly cold."

Queen Susan raised a dark eyebrow. "Nysha?"

_Dear Aslan, please let there be another creature who she is addressing, _Nysha prayed silently. When empty silence answered her, she glanced to the monarchs. They were indeed looking to her expectantly.

"Does my brother have a 'measly cold'?" The two daughters of Eve stared at her, their faces impassive. King Edmund was not so calm. His eyes pled with her to allay the seriousness of his ailment.

In the end, duty to the truth of her profession won out. And the fact that there were two Queens and only one King. One had to use one's head logically.

"I'm afraid your brother's illness seems to be of a more serious nature. I believe my master intends to keep your brother to his rooms until the fluid in his lungs has drained."

"And how long will that be?" King Edmund sounded indignant and if it wasn't for the scarlet tinge to his cheeks and the shaky grasp of the bed sheets Nysha might have feared for the safety of her position.

"I'm afraid at least a fortnight."

"A fortnight?" He sank back against the pillows and immediately began to cough.

"Ed, just calm down. It will go faster than you think." Queen Susan patted the end of the bed, trying in vain to assuage his fears.

Queen Lucy seemed to repent of her earlier words as she leaned in and gave her brother's hand a quick squeeze. "I'll ask Mr. Tumnus if he wants to come play chess with you this afternoon."

"A whole fortnight…" King Edmund didn't appear to have heard his sisters. Nysha carefully recorded that, too. The illness shouldn't have affected his hearing…perhaps the lightning had damaged his ears?

Nysha was prevented from gathering any further observations as Rinklerhim had entered, wobbling over to the bedside on his hooves. "Don't worry yourself, young son of Adam. You'll soon be back to good health if you stay in this bed, take your medicines, and rest."

He passed the monarch a small teacup of some greenish liquid and placed a ceramic jar on the oaken nightstand. "Now, drink this and you'll be off to a good start."

King Edmund lowered his nose suspiciously. "It smells," he commented after a moment.

"Most tonics do, sire." Rinklerhim agreed and busied himself stirring the concoction in the jar.

"How long will I be sick if I don't drink this?"

Rinklerhim stared down his nose at his patient, the weary smile ever present. "A month, at the very least."

The crevices in King Edmund's frown deepened. "Bother."

"Indeed. I shall have to bother the kitchen maids for it once a day until you are recovered."

King Edmund had just drained a gulp from the cup—with a bitter, pursed expression—when those words reached his ears. "Once a day?" he squeaked.

"That is correct, unless you would like to stay in this bed for a month."

Arms crossed and frown rapidly turning to a sulking pout, King Edmund lay back against the mountain of pillows.

Rinklerhim gestured to Nysha and the ceramic pot with a wrinkled hand. "Nysha? Take this, will you, and apply it? My old bones are not what they used to be."

"Master Rinklerhim?" Was he really entrusting her with the health of the King of Narnia? Well, one of them at least.

"Go on. You've done it yourself often enough on the street children." He handed her the little pot, the strong scent of mustard assaulting her nose.

Ah, a mustard plaster. Her master was correct. She'd applied countless plasters to the sick children when a strong wave of pneumonia swept through Cair Paravel while the White Witch's cold winter reigned.

With shaking hands, she set aside the journal and accepted the jar. Rinklerhim resumed her place and watched with careful eyes as she placed a damp cloth over the young King's chest, scooped a generous portion of the plaster into her hands, and began to apply it to the cloth.

King Edmund merely flopped his head back, and stared hard at the ceiling, as if willing the illness away.

Nysha was focusing hard on her task, the mustard plaster was clearly fresh as the mixture's warmth radiated out pleasantly from the little pot. However that warmth made the mixture thinner than Nysha would have preferred and she was terrified that she would drop some of it on the white bedsheets. Such a stain would not be easy to remove.

She was nearly done when the door clicked open. A drop the size of a pinhead wavered on the heel of her hand and then plummeted to mar the sheets by King Edmund's shoulder.

Her eyes widened and she took a deep breath. A quick hand deposited the plaster on the cloth while the other carefully wiped away the spill before it could be seen. She glanced about the room and found that her mistake and indeed gone unnoticed as King Peter had returned to the room.

His hair was still damp but he was wearing a fresh pair of trousers and a warm tunic. His cheeks did look a little pink and his eyes were unusually glassy, but then Nysha remembered her task and finished spreading the last of the plaster.

"Is all well?" he asked Rinklerhim.

"Everything except for me, apparently."

"Edmund…" King Peter growled.

"He'll be in bed for a fortnight but he will recover." Rinklerhim was unperturbed. Nysha began to wonder, not for the first time, at the length of his patience.

Upon being reminded of his bedridden state, King Edmund's sulk returned. A deep cough and two sniffles followed as if the illness was refusing to be forgotten.

Rinklerhim's brow creased and he looked hard at the young King. "Did you drink all of the tonic I gave you?"

The most curious thing began to happen. Nysha could have sworn that the King shrunk in the great bed. "Yes…"

The physician's eyes hardened.

"Not all of it…but it isn't really that important, is it?"

Rinklerhim directed a finger to the teacup and the King groaned. "All of it, sire."

The young King made to protest when a cough echoed through the room. For an instant, Nysha was most confused. She had been watching King Edmund and he had most certainly not coughed.

She glanced about the room, checking each face for the telltale discomfort. The culprit surprised her, though it really shouldn't have.

King Peter smothered a second cough behind his hand and loosened the neck of his tunic. He then noticed the questioning stares being directed his way. "What?"

"Peter? Are you feeling well?"

"I'm fine." He assured them quickly.

"I daresay you don't look fine at all." Queen Lucy scoffed.

It took a moment of reflection but Queen Susan apparently agreed. "I think Lucy's correct. In fact, I think Rinklerhim should look you over."

"I quite agree." King Edmund flashed a smile to rival any pixie's.

"Shut it, would you? Take your medicine." King Peter ordered the invalid and then restated, "I'm fine. Just a little tickle at the back of my throat. It's passed now."

"Peter…really, you can be worse than Edmund sometimes."

"I'm fine!" Unfortunately for King Peter, he seemed to have spoken too forcefully as a traitorous cough emerged.

The two sisters needed no further encouragement, and suddenly the room was a tornado of activity as another hot burner, two cups of tea, another mustard plaster, a teacup of tonic, and King Edmund's chess set were summoned.

From beneath the thick covers, King Edmund glowed, though whether it was from the fever or pleasure at his brother's situation Nysha couldn't say.


	13. General

Well, hello, everyone! I sincerely apologize for the wait on this one...you'd think I could manage to get a chapter up every now and then. Anyway, this chapter isn't as light-hearted as others...so be aware. Oddly enough I invisioned this to be one of the more amusing ones...that having been said, read and enjoy!

**A/N:** Thanks so much to everybody that is reading this, favoriting, putting on alerts. Really, you guys have continued to brighten my days when I see that people are still enjoying these. So yeah, you're awesome! (and that is why you have a chapter a day early...or several months late depending on how you look at it)

Deep Enough to Dream, audrey, spanderfan, DazedinLife, (none yet), Taryn Streambattle, rolletti, Metonomia, Wildfire2, Mary, Arquenniel, sexyredhead, LunaNigra, Autumnia, captive1princess, lailyspenstar, and anyone else I might be forgetting--Thank you for your reviews!! I love hearing from you!

audrey: Thanks for the many reviews! Yes, they did escape their escort. I left the details intentionally vague so you can come up with your own idea of how, where, etc. :) Nysha has been one of my favorites (probably why it was one of the longest chapters). I'm so happy that you're enjoying it!

(none yet): Thanks for the reviews! Yay! I'm making you laugh! That's wonderful! Opinions are good. :) Hmm, I'll have to see if I can work in a Beavers appearance at least. Who knows? Mr. Tumnus just might show up, too! :)

**A/N #2:** As always, if there is any character you want to show up, any ideas...just let me know and I'll see what I can do. :) Your thoughts are always welcome.

And now, the poll result chapter...

**Chapter 13: General**

Cair Paravel had seen hard times. Two winters past the end of the Witch's rule and Aslan's coming, there was a terrible storm that left half the burrows buried in feet of snow. A year after that a drought had left her subjects parched for even a pitcher of cool water. Even later still, a feverish illness spread like wildfire through the lowlands.

But never had the glorious city seen such a bane as this.

This shook her very roots.

'This' was both King Edmund and King Peter bedridden with a sickness of the lungs, sequestered to the same room to keep the infection contained.

A fortnight had passed and Cair Paravel was struggling to remain whole.

Oreius was now one of the only creatures that would dare venture into the royal wing of the palace. The enormous drapes had been closed to keep out the growing winter chill and crackling fires were stoked in the main rooms by the monarchs themselves, as the wary serving maids couldn't be found past the great hall.

Occasionally a page would come skittering down the corridors, some document or empty dish in hand. Hailing them, however, was about as simple as stopping a roaring minotaur.

And so Oreius found himself doing such menial tasks as fetching the Queen's supper and bringing it to the massive study where the High King would have sat, had he been hale.

He entered quietly, not wishing to startle the Queens in the stillness of the palace. He found very little movement and even less sound. In fact, if he didn't look closely he might have thought the study to be deserted.

The candelabras were low, wax dripping down the silver moldings and pooling on the fine tablecloths. Piles of books, parchment, and inkpots nearly hid Queen Susan away, her dark hair mussed and eyes weary. Queen Lucy was missing almost entirely. Only her freckled nose and the tips of her heels were visible beneath what looked to be a series of maps strewn out over the floor.

As he navigated his way past the inky Sea of Calmor and the Forests of Archenland, he remembered that the little Queen had always preferred the lush carpets to a stern desk. She stirred as his hooves cleared the center of the room, and suddenly two round eyes appeared.

"Oreius, are my brothers well yet?" She sounded very displeased and Oreius began to wonder just how long the study had been occupied.

The general shook his head sadly. "Nay, my Queen, I fear the sickness has taken a very great hold on your brothers. It will take time to shake it free."

"Bother…I told Peter I should have used the cordial."

"Lucy," Queen Susan's voice carried more weariness than Oreius had heard before, "we've already discussed this. The cordial is only to be used to cure mortal wounds."

"Rinklerhim said that fluid had built up in their lungs. That sounds very mortal to me."

The elder Queen sighed softly. "Just let them rest and they'll be better before you know it."

Queen Lucy wrinkled her nose in distaste and turned back to her maps.

For his part, Oreius placed the silver platter of dishes and steaming food on a low table to the side of the room, taking great care to remain unobtrusive on the small family 'discussion'. His care, however, became unneeded as the conversation dwindled away to the pop and crackle of the fireplace and the scratch of inky quill tips.

"Oreius?" the Gentle daughter of Eve passed a hand over her temple and sighed.

"My lady?"

"Those stacks there" she flapped her free hand towards the precarious piles of parchment hiding the High King's desk from sight, "are finally ready to be signed."

He reached for the closest. "Which…stack did you mean, precisely?"

"No, no, not that one. Those are to be thrown out. The one, the one," she leaned across the desk and snatched a pile near the grand chair where the King usually sat. "Here. Have Peter and Edmund—both of them, mind you—sign them, would you please?"

"As you wish, my lady."

Though Oreius had the distinct impression she heard his response she had yet to look up from her labors. A few papers curled through the air as she tossed them towards various piles. "I swear, once Peter's recovered I'll not let him out of my sight again until he's organized this hive," she mumbled, giving a sealed inkpot a forceful shove down the gleaming wood to clatter against a whole cluster of similarly closed inkpots.

The general had not gained his position by being ignorant of the condition of various situations. And his presence in this particular situation was no longer required. He hefted the pile, gathered the necessary writing utensils and made his way towards the door.

"And Oreius?"

He turned to gaze back at Queen Susan.

She paused, catching her lip and running her hands together. "Tell me if they're well?"

He dipped his head in respect. "As you wish, my lady."

The journey to the royal bedchambers was a rather bothersome one. Despite his years of service he hadn't borne a pile of papers that reached his chin and, in rather spectacular form, the pale sheets persisted in gently catching the air he stirred as he walked and escaping upon them.

In the end, he learned that one either had to walk very slowly so as to keep the pages still or use the pot of ink and sharpened quills he held in his free hand to weigh them down. He also had a moment to reflect, before entering the King's chambers, on the virtues of deserted hallways as his conduct had not been entirely befitting of a general in the retrieval of the vexing documents.

After very carefully opening the door he stepped inside the very room that half of Narnia thought to be a veritable battlefield, if the serving maids were to be believed.

They were not far off the mark.

The two Sons of Adam were sitting in their beds on opposite walls from the other, arms crossed, eyebrows drawn tightly together, and eyes harder than flint.

"Good day, my lords." Oreius searched for the proper words to breach the situation. He could not ask if they had slept well for it was past midday. He could not inquire as to if they had enjoyed their day for the answer was apparent in their seething glares. The Queen's request echoed back to him and the words were on his tongue before he could think better of it. "Has your health improved?"

Suddenly the two sets of eyes were pinned on him, wrathful and condescendingly intense.

"I see." The words tasted of wry understanding.

The eyes snapped back to their previous positions and Oreius wondered if animosity could be contagious even when the sons of Adam and the daughters of Eve were rooms away from each other.

"Is there anything you require?" He did not expect an answer and was most surprised when he was given one, though he really should have foreseen it.

The High King drew his arms over his chest, shoulders turning hard and fists bunching. "Yes, I require a long, healthy walk outside. Better yet a run through the forest. Fresh air."

Whatever their disagreement might have been, Edmund seemed to push it aside long enough to chip in, "or at the very least a new set of lungs."

"Indeed." Oreius raised an eyebrow and found he agreed heartily with both statements but knew they were equally impossible. "If I can provide nothing further for your comfort, I must then request that you take up this quill and sign these documents." He crossed the room and handed each son of Adam the proper pages.

"Wait a minute. I'm infirm. You can't expect me to sign all these." Edmund was the first to put up an argument.

King Peter was not far behind. "Our condition could be worsened."

Oreius very much doubted that but he refrained from vocalizing his thoughts and instead spoke of other things. "Your sister, Queen Susan, has requested that you both sign all of them."

That seemed to have an effect on them.

An increasingly well known fact was that, when provoked, Susan or Lucy could be as equally stubborn as either of their brothers and in such a situation as they now found themselves the daughters of Eve were not to be argued with.

After all, the books being regularly sent to King Peter and King Edmund for a leisure activity could easily be 'misplaced'. How long the days might seem then…

The two brothers seemed to realize this as well, and while they looked about as pleased as a skunk with a porcupine quill embedded in its back they set about opening their inkpots and wetting the tips of their quills.

A terse moment passed and then Edmund said, "Isn't this the marriage license you were to give permission to months ago?" He held up a sealed document sadly lacking in signatures.

Any marriage proposal between courtiers was traditionally approved by the monarchs and given a signed document upon the wedding day as a written blessing. It was little more than a formality but the Narnians treasured it and so the custom was reborn when the Kings and Queens took their thrones.

"So what if it is?" Peter growled from his bed, harshly dragging his quill across a page.

"Wasn't this supposed to be signed then?"

"I don't see anyone complaining."

"Well, maybe I am. These things are supposed to be signed before the wedding day."

"The signature was implied. I gave them the royal blessing."

Oreius cleared his throat. "I believe there are yet documents to be signed."

Again, he felt the full concentration of their heated glowers and did not waver. He had faced the screaming, writhing masses of the White Witch's army. He would not falter here.

There was a distinct air of displeasure and Oreius had an eerie sense that their ire with each other had suddenly been transferred towards him but, again, the sons of Adam lifted their quills and continued to form the letters of their name in swift jerks.

Twenty solid minutes passed as the papers were exchanged, Oreius the unfortunate ferry between the Kings, and each moment grew more and more ripe with frustration. Three times ink was spilt on the fine coverlets and when a fourth threatened to stain the carpets suspiciously near his hoof he decided that enough was enough.

He slipped out the door, giving ground not in retreat but…allowing the two to reconcile their differences before it became hazardous to his health.

And with that thought he cantered down the empty hallways towards the kitchen to find some nourishment for himself.

* * *

The evening meal had passed before Oreius found himself returning to fetch the signed documents. He supposed sufficient time had elapsed, even for a pair such as these.

And he was correct in his assessment. The pages were all signed and the room was still, the figures under the blankets quiet. Too quiet, in fact.

Oreius moved to the nearest bed and peered over the side to properly examine the inhabitant.

At first glance he thought he'd intruded upon a resting, recuperating monarch, upon a second, however, it was apparently clear that the pillows stuffed under the coverlets were not King Peter, though the straw for kindling the fire was momentarily convincing as tufts of the King's golden hair. A further inspection showed that the second bed was empty as well, a roll of dark yarn piled atop the pillow for effect.

Gathering the pages and wrapping them carefully in a satchel brought to keep them from flying off, Oreius began his trek down the halls, a steely determination to find the Kings and replace them to their bedchambers coiling in his chest.

This, unfortunately, was not the first time the brothers had made off from where the physician had firmly instructed them to remain. Usually when such a thing occurred there were only two logical places to look.

The kitchens or the stables.

Oreius was inclined to believe the latter was the culprit in this case.

King Peter was notoriously unable to remain indoors for more than a few hours and King Edmund was similarly unable to let his brother run off by himself.

Yes, they would be in the stables, trying to persuade Philip and Stelia to let them traverse the Narnian countryside. The only problem was that Philip and Stelia usually agreed, simply out of deference to their riders.

A shortcut through the servants quarters and Oreius could hear them now, scuffling along down the large corridors. They appeared to have dressed warmly, a small blessing, though it also appeared to be in great haste as Edmund was hopping along beside his brother, yanking his foot farther into his boot.

"Would you get that on already?" Peter sounded quite cross.

"I'm trying. It's this blasted lacing." He finally gave up moving at the same time and stopped, stomping down hard and finally tightening the last of the lacings.

Oreius reflected somewhat morosely that the young King's ankle seemed to have healed nicely. A fact that would make it considerably harder to keep the Kings corralled.

Peter had kept right on moving, unlatching a door to the courtyard and staring out into the moonlight. He seemed to be encouraged by what he saw as he plowed ahead, the door left standing open for his brother.

Oreius waited for a full minute past when the door had shut behind them before he clicked it open and ventured out. The wooden awning stretched out several feet past the door way and circled around the courtyard, providing cover in the rain and, in Oreius' case, deep shadows to hide in.

The Kings were halfway across the wide cobbled yard, breathing coming harder as their adrenaline fueled energy faded with each step. They continued on doggedly, gusts of chilly wind tugging at their cloaks.

Oreius knew his time was slipping away. He had to step out and prevent the Kings from injuring themselves in their half-healed state and he was about to do so when suddenly the High King lurched to a halt.

"Ed?" Peter's eyes were fixed on something in the air.

Feet dragging, Edmund turned back and waited for his brother to explain himself. It took but a moment for the realization to sink it.

Tiny, sparkling flakes of the whitest snow twirled down from the starlit sky, collecting in the narrows between the cobblestones and dusting the sons of Adam in a fine white powder.

"The first snow…" the younger King's voice was oddly quiet.

A moment passed and Oreius felt himself unconsciously retreating into the shadows.

The part of him that clamored to keep them in the warmth of the castle was quieted and he waited, feeling as though he had unintentionally intruded upon a private moment.

"Ed…" The High King's eyes drifted from the snowflakes to his brother.

His brother appeared deaf, limbs frozen as they were dotted white.

Another heartbeat passed and something changed. "Come on, Ed. The stables are just ahead." Peter snagged his brother's arm and gently tugged him forward, his voice was firm but quiet and it seemed to be enough for his brother.

King Edmund blinked. Once. Twice. And then he was walking again.

Oreius remained where he was and as he saw the two make plod along he realized that he wasn't going to stop them. Not tonight.

He was retreating towards another doorway, once leading to the great hall and eventually the study to return the documents he saw the brothers stop and look back. Coming to a quick halt he waited, watching as they glanced around them.

Drawing in a great breath, Edmund looked over at Pete. "Do you remember the stables being this far away?"

His brow wrinkled in thought, the moonlight shining off moisture on his temples. "Perhaps we'll sneak out again tomorrow. We could go riding then."

King Edmund nodded, his shoulders caving in what oddly seemed like relief. "We could even detour to the kitchens first and eat something more than broth and vegetables. I could have sworn I smelled spice cake baking yesterday."

The High King nodded satisfactorily and, leaning lightly against each other, they kicked up the dusting of snow as they traipsed back to the wooden doorway, warmth, and rest.

King Peter suddenly tensed. "Wait…spice cake? It wasn't spice cake. There was a distinct fruit tinge in the air. That, Ed, was a fruit bread. Apple or pear would be my guess."

"Was not. It didn't smell sweet enough to be fruit bread."

"It was! You could practically taste it!"

"Maybe you could…"

Peter gave Edmund a shove. "Oh, come off it."

Edmund shoved him right back. "You come off it."

Oreius felt a grin overtake his face as he watched the two brothers bicker all the way into the palace.

It seemed Cair Paravel would survive this, too.


	14. Messenger

At long last, I've managed to turn out a chapter. I'm so sorry for the wait. Thanks to Arquenniel, Caomhe of Tyrone, and Laer Fea for the help in brainstorming sessions.

**A/N:** Thanks, as always, to reviewers Rahmi, Eregnar, omishiloh, LunaNigra, King Caspian the Seafarer, Rolletti, Arquenniel, CN, Wildfire2, , where the wind blows, captive1princess, ginevra85, Taryn Streambattle, Autumnia, and any others that I may have forgotten!

**A/N #2:** A plot of some substance should hopefully be appearing so keep your eyes open for that. :)

**A/N #3:** Also a special note of thanks to those who have put this story on their alerts or favorites. We've passed one hundred favorites and are nearing one hundred alerts. It makes me very happy to know that people are enjoying this so much!

**Chapter 14: Messenger**

The sun was surprisingly warm for the season, though the snow had yet to melt from the mountain caps, giving a pleasant heat to the stones in Tirza's path. Her paws swiftly and surely found their way up and over the giant boulders, pine branches swiped at her fur, and the pebbled ground stirred under her powerful strokes.

Spring and autumn were among the best of seasons for a messenger such as Tirza. The winter's snowfall impeded her journey with its wet and slippery covering. Summer's heat sapped her of moisture and made the search for water all too important for the speed with which she would prefer to travel.

But in the cooling eves of autumn or the brightening of spring, Tirza could practically fly through the forests and plains.

Aslan had blessed them with an unusually mild spring and, as such, many delegations had left Cair Paravel earlier than expected to travel to other lands. One of those delegations had included High King Peter and King Edmund.

A day after their departure, however, Tirza had been summoned by a very grave General Oreius and Queen Susan. A sealed letter had been given to her care and she was instructed in the most serious of terms that she was to deliver their message at the soonest possible moment.

And now, hours and many miles later, she was nearing her destination.

The trail was easily followed. The impressions that twenty soldiers and two Kings left on the forest were unable to be completely swept away. As she gained on them, the markings became more and more fresh.

Several hours back she had passed where they had no doubt camped for the night, sooty fire pits and crumpled grasses revealing where they had taken supper and later slept.

Her task was also made easier by the fact that they were in no great hurry. Their speed seemed to moderated and comfortable and Tirza sensed that they would take camp soon before crossing into Ettin territory.

After all, they were not expected to reach the castles of the Giants until four days thence.

Her thoughts proved to be correct as up ahead she smelled fur and sour wine. A great leap brought her over a small ledge and crashing down before a satyr resting upon a tree stump. An undignified yelp echoed through the forest and a spear swung up before her eyes.

Tirza drew in a breath and spoke the greeting long familiar to her lips, "Hail Aslan."

"Hail Aslan," the sentry looked at her with wide eyes, his grip shifting around the shaft of his spear.

Had she been a first year messenger she would have reveled in his surprise, smiled at the way his feet shuffled in the snowy dirt as he attempted to recover his wits. However, Tirza had learned after a near unpleasant brush with a dagger and another such unsuspecting sentry that speed and stealth needed to be tempered with wisdom.

Wisdom in this situation was a slow moving paw and careful words. "I bring word from Cair Paravel for King Peter and King Edmund."

"O-of course." He swallowed visibly, "I'll just fetch…my comrade, shall I?"

"You would have my thanks, Master Sentry." Tirza waited calmly. Such things were best not rushed.

"Then…if you'll follow me?" A slow blink as her nod processed in his brain and then he wrenched around to face, presumably, the main encampment. Loudly and with little care for the burgeoning shrubbery, he stumbled off into the forest, helmet clattering about his stunted satyr horns and spear end dragging a furrow through the forest floor.

The journey, surprisingly, took little longer than a few moments, though each of those was punctuated with sharp, trepidation-filled glances thrown over the little creature's shoulder.

Tirza merely stalked serenely after him, feeling the heat of her journey recede into the deepest parts of her chest as the sharp pine air pulled at her short fur. Such ventures had ceased to lose their adrenaline-filled charge long ago. Not even the sentries' responses could amuse her. What did she care for a knobby-kneed satyr?

Her noble race of cougars had ceased to taste satyr-flesh for many, many years now. Besides, if Tirza's instinct was correct, the meat would be far too stringy with age or pudgy with disuse to offer any real temptation.

The foolish little beast would keep his sagging belly and matted fur.

At long last, the tented steeples of the encampment came within sight and soon enough, she was greeted by the satyr's superior who quickly recognized the official seal on the letter in her care and directed her to the main tent. A more suitably equipped dwarf escorted her to the gilded silks of the Kings' tent and had her wait before the darkened entry.

In a refreshing change from her recent meetings, High King Peter himself pushed back the fabrics and stepped out to join her in the midday sunlight. "Tirza, I trust your journey was uneventful." He dipped his head to acknowledge her bow and accepted the sealed letter.

Indeed, the King did look pale. But she had trouble being entirely certain. Not many were sure of the care of sons of Adam and daughters of Eve and many a great scandal had been caused when an unsuspecting creature asked if their affliction had caused so much hair to be lost.

However this day she had extra reason to wonder after her liege's health.

The two Kings had only been released days ago from the physician's care. Many in the palace had protested, as loudly and firmly as one can with their ruler, against the prudence of such a strenuous undergoing. But the two were not to be daunted.

There were rumors that not even Oreius and the Queens combined had tried to stop them to no avail. The wash maids were still chattering about how the Queens had only relented because the High King had threatened to throw himself from the ramparts if he was not allowed to leave the palace. Apparently, King Edmund had offered to throw him a rope after he'd seen the wisdom of his ways.

That also had been the discussion of many a maid. Some said that the brothers were perfectly serious. Others said the threat and following riposte were in jest, a ploy to win over their sisters.

Nevertheless, the two Kings were on the road to the Northern Plains within three days accompanied by a quarter of the regular troops. Not to be outdone by each other's tales, the maids had further informed Tirza before her leave of the palace that the Queens had tried to impress upon their brothers the entire royal guard and half of the regular troops but the number had been whittled down to the current stock and a magical dropper of mystically healing fairy juice.

Tirza loftily ignored them.

Such was the idiocy of the palace help. They were only rumors, after all.

King Peter smoothed the deepening wrinkles of his forehead, and slid his thumb under the royal seal. A quick jerk later and the wax popped free. He looked over at Tirza briefly, "Thank you for your promptness. You shall have your answer soon enough." He smiled, though the action looked as though it pained him and that in reality his mind was on other matters entirely.

"My lord," she bowed again, her whiskers brushing the long strands of grass.

The tent flaps waved in the breeze as the High King disappeared behind them, a glimpse of a tent full of maps and charts and wizened creatures awaiting him briefly greeted the day's light.

And so the first half of her duty was completed.

Lazily swiping her tail across the pine-needled ground, Tirza did the following half of her duty. She waited. Oftentimes the wait for the new dispatches took long spreads of time. She had learned long ago that sitting like a forlorn pup at the fringe of the royal tents was both unbecoming and imprudent.

She would wait under the sun's warming rays next to a nice quiet creek within both eyesight and earshot of the tents should she be needed but comfortable enough to recover her strength.

A few cooling laps of water, though bitingly cold, sated her thirst and she lowered herself to the forest floor, head propped on her paws for the delay. True enough, the wait was longer for some generals over others, and while the Kings were not exorbitant with time she did not expect to be on her return journey until the sun was beneath the western hills.

Such an inconvenience would bother other messengers but Tirza remained calm. The rest would be appreciated and her speed would not be affected by the growing cold of night.

What did it matter if she arrived in Cair Paravel at dawn or at dusk?

The sun slowly sank in the sky, a light breeze gathering and weaving through the light-dappled forest. Tirza remained where she was and none came to fetch her away. Her weariness gradually took hold of her shoulders and powerful hind legs and in a moment she was dozing off in the receding late afternoon warmth.

Time passed, though Tirza could hardly say how much. Bushes rustled and instantly she was awake.

A quick span of her surroundings showed that she was no longer alone. King Edmund was walking towards her, hands shoved deep in his pockets and head down. His boot-clad toes swiped at the branches that had the unfortunate burden of falling on his path.

He finally glanced up, and came to stand a few feet off. A wan smile brightened his face and he greeted her. "Hullo, Tirza. Pleased to see you in one piece."

"And you as well, my lord." She raised herself off the forest floor and lowered her head in respect.

"Yes, well, if my family had their way I would not be out from underneath the rooftops of Cair Paravel. I doubt I would ever even leave the gates of the palace." King Edmund blew out a breath and pulled a hand through his dark hair.

"My lord?"

"Sorry," he mumbled, tossing a glance to the great tents in which no doubt his brother and the generals sat in conference.

"It is no matter, my lord." Tirza tried to put him at ease. Perhaps he'd been sent to deliver the new dispatches. It would not have been uncommon. King Peter and King Edmund had little compunction for hiding away in enclosed spaces and any excuse to escape such confinement was readily accepted, even if it may have been considered mundane by some.

Be that as it may, no letter was procured and the younger King continued as if encouraged.

"It's just that Peter can be smothering sometimes. Terribly demanding…and loud." King Edmund drew his arms across his chest, shoulders back, and face determinedly turned to the encampment. "And bothersome. And, do you know? He's even got the audacity to claim that I snore!"

His dark eyes whirled on her. "Snore! Can you believe such utter lunacy?" and then the smoldering glare was burning holes in the main tent's grand arches, "as if I'd snore." His tone had dropped dangerously low, like a territorial male stalking his prey, "I don't snore. He is the one that snores."

Tirza bowed again, hoping that perhaps he might proffer the letter now.

He remained oblivious to her slight hint and stood beside her, scowling off into tent's opening.

Minutes passed and still no letter appeared.

Tirza finally settled her eyes on the opening as well. Perhaps there was a piece of this mystery she was missing. Revelation might be found in staring at whatever the King was so put out by.

After what seemed like an age, Tirza blinked, feeling the dirt building on her eyes and the wetness of tears to clean it away.

The young King remained unmoved. In fact, if possible his scowl seemed to have darkened.

Slowly, Tirza eased herself down into a sitting position at his side and waited still further. Revelation, it seemed, was not forthcoming and she had no desire to be weary when her task would finally be attended to.

The king hardly shifted after Tirza estimated an hour had passed. She doubted little would have changed even with the setting of the sun unless the tent flap was pulled away and High King Peter stepped outside. And such a thing did, in fact, happen.

The High King looked excessively weary, like a great bear emerging from a long hibernation to the sun-dappled fields of spring. He ran a hand through his hair and squinted over at the dipping sun. Only a few moments passed before he saw the pair of them sitting by the great oak. Shoving his hands in his pockets much like his brother had done, he walked over heavily, head down and shoulders tense.

"Tirza," he nodded his greeting to her and glanced sideways at his brother, "Ed".

"Your majesty" Tirza bowed.

King Edmund offered a frigid, "Pete".

The High King pointedly ignored the biting pronouncement of his name and focused his attention on her. "I'm afraid I haven't a message for you, Tirza. There was some…" he cleared his throat awkwardly, "disagreement over what the response should be exactly."

King Edmund snorted but made no other comment.

"If you wish for food, there is some waiting for you just in there," he pointed to a tent across the clearing. "It might be some time," his eyes dropped to the ground at his feet, "before I can persuade the others."

Tirza was about to thank her liege for his concern and politely accept a few flagons of cold water for her journey when it would eventually commence when she was cut off.

"Oh, come off it, Pete." The King's tone was surprisingly calm and tired even. "I'm not going to agree to some fool plan to stand against the Ettinsmoor giants by reinforcing the northern borders. They'll not be frightened a twit and we'll have a new garrison to explain to their diplomats."

It seemed both brothers were weary of the debate as High King Peter nodded absently, more interested in kneading a hand across his forehead.

"Just let the giants move as they will. We'll be in Ettinsmoor within a fortnight and there we can straighten this whole mess out. The giants will move their troops from the northern border and all will be well."

"I agree with you on that point, but the whole matter is just not that simple, Ed." King Peter held up a hand and the younger King's mouth that had fallen open, no doubt to argue his point further, stubbornly closed in deference.

"The generals are afraid that this is just the first move of many. For the giants of Ettinsmoor to move militarily, when they are aware that we will be arriving at their capital shortly, seems suspicious. If they moved to attack us, while in their territory, we would be in no position to defend ourselves. Think of where that would leave Narnia. They would have a kingdom in panic and two monarchs to bargain with."

King Edmund's facial expression demonstrated his disbelief that such a move would be taken by the giants.

"I know it's unlikely. But there is still that chance and while it is there, we need to be cautious. Even if their intents are merely defensive, to bolster weary troops as you believe it to be, we need to be aware that our own troops are likely as weary of being vigilant and we cannot allow such vital outposts as the ones along the northern border to be undefended.

He sighed sharply. "It isn't what I'd like either, Ed, but if Narnia lost an area that could have been held simply because we didn't send in a few dozen reinforcements..."

"I know, I bloody know already." The King drew his arms across his chest. "I just wish it wasn't so bloody aggressive." He glanced back at the High King with slitted eyes. "You know they'll wonder if we're mobilizing an attack if more troops are moved there."

"I know."

"Well, brilliant. It'll make our job that much more difficult…but I suppose there's nothing else for it."

"Then," King Peter hesitated shall I draw up the message?"

King Edmund looked as though a storm cloud had settled over his head but even Tirza could see his concession. "No, I'll do it. Leastways I'll know what exactly to tell the nobles who'll be questioning us about it."

"Ed…"

"I've got it, Pete. Reinforcements to the north." And the King turned on his heel and marched back to the main tent's awnings.

"Well, he was in a mood." the High King grumbled under his breath and Tirza discretely pretended not to have heard.

Such comments were not a part of her duties. Military strategies and disagreements between monarchs…well, that was for the politicians and washing maids to manage. Couriers, after all, only delivered messages.

And an hour later, Tirza was indeed returning to Cair Paravel through the starlit night bearing orders for an increase in troop support along the northern border.


	15. Footsoldier

Amazing! An update that only took a week to arrive. :) Hope you all enjoy!

Many thanks to reviewers LunaNigra, where the wind blows, Eregnar, FelipeMarcusThomas, Autumnia, and Eavis. I always love to hear your response to the chapters and appreciate the time that was spent typing it up. :)

Again, a round of applause for Laer Fae, Arquenniel, and Caomhe of Tyrone for being such amazing sounding boards while I tried to straighten this story into submission. If it wasn't for them, this chapter would likely be weeks away.

Enjoy all! Hope it brightens your day!

**Chapter 15: Footsoldier**

It all happened so quickly.

Brocc supposed the trouble started with the snowfall two nights ago.

Fair weather had accompanied the two Kings' envoy from the cliffs of Cair Paravel until they were only hours from the Ettin border. The new spring was mild and already blossoming with burgeoning greenery and warm winds. Then, suddenly, good fortune and, it seemed, the favor of Aslan left them for the skies grew cloudy and dark. Winds, bitterly cold, tore at them from all sides. Within two days, snow fell heavily down upon them.

The closer they drew to Ettinsmoor, the more rocky and desolate the ground became and the harder the wind and snow battered them. Many of the soldiers retreated to what shelter could be found in the increasingly barren landscape until they were called upon to continue their journey.

Brocc had heard of rumors that the Kings considered turning back but they were quickly proven false when the group doggedly continued on. Scouts reported that the way back was even more perilous than the journey to the courts of Ettin.

Brocc seriously doubted that. He had no fondness for the giants of Ettinsmoor. Or their land. Too much bad luck had hounded them on this journey. Something was amiss. Brocc could feel it in his bones.

His twin brother, the venerable mischief-maker Cian, wholeheartedly agreed with him and was a good deal more vocal about it. A brilliantly strong flask of brandy of a particularly good vintage worked its way through the troops as they marched, each creature sneaking a small taste and then, mournfully, passing it along. The liquor calmed most, the artificial warmth settling comfortably at the base of their throats, but Cian was only made more confident by it.

His quiet grumblings of discontent slowly grew bolder until Brocc was hushing him as loudly as he dared.

Thank Aslan, they stopped only five hours into their march, the troops too worn from wading through the knee-deep snow banks to carry on. Sergeant Albion directed them to the base of a cliff, a slight refuge from the brunt of the wind, though the weary troops needed little encouragement.

They had only just caught their breath when the sergeant returned and called upon ten of the weary guard to help fetch the supplies wagon. Apparently, its wheels had become buried and it had become immobile. They were to free it before it became lost entirely.

A half hour later they returned with the wagon in tow and collapsed with their comrades for another round of brandy. The little badger responsible for cooking did not even attempt to light a fire for cooking and instead passed around hard biscuits.

Ahead Brocc caught a glimpse of the Kings, buried under warm woolen tunics and scarves. The general that had accompanied them as their advisor was nearby, glowering at the weather and keeping the two young rulers close. A flask of something was passed between them and then they bedded down next to their horses.

Brocc burrowed deeper into the snow, a touch of bitter confusion pulling at his thoughts. His mum's voice echoed in his ears, reminding him of their lot in life, and he turned his thought elsewhere. Ignoring the numbness of his paws or the ice solidifying along his whiskers proved to be far more consuming.

Around him, the exhausted escort did little else but pulled their scarves and extremities closer. The wind howled over them, pulling at the ground just past their paws.

Cold, hungry, and miserable, they passed the night.

Dawn came, pale but clear. The wind had calmed and the blue sky above them showed no promise of further snowfall.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the soldiers extracted themselves from their snowflake-fashioned cocoons. Stiff muscles were stretched and rubbed vigorously to regain some semblance of blood flow.

Brocc caught himself wishing for another swig of brandy before he'd even walked two steps. Even more irritated than before, he shoved at his brother, swatting the tip of his ear protruding from the snow.

"Oi…" his brother grumbled, shifting under his snowy blanket.

"Cian, I tink we're to get breakfast." Brocc glanced over at the supplies wagon and, as sure as he was a full grown wolf, the little badger was fetching a few pots and filling them with snow to melt for water.

Cian's right eye flicked open. "Breakfast?"

"Aye."

"Why didn't you bloody say so, ye bloody idiot."

"I did bloody say so."

Cian sniffed and pushed himself from the snow bank. A quick shake of his tail and a long stretch, the same stretch he'd done since he was a pup, shoulders thrown forward and nose reaching for the sky. "I tink my stomach has shrunk to da size of a walnut," he complained.

Brocc's gaze traveled up the cliff's side. A large build-up of snow had been formed along the ridge-line by the vicious wind, casting a deeper shadow across where they had camped. No wonder the chill of the morning had clung to him so. But gratefully his stomach remained unaffected and if the cook was serving breakfast, he was eating it. "Well, I could go for a few kippers."

Cian wrinkled his nose. "Course ye can."

"Not me fault ye've got the constitution of a bird." Brocc threw a sideways glance at a griffon resting his wings a few yards away. "Though it's a good ting fer some…"

The griffon merely gave him a coolly superior look and continued preening his feathers.

"Enjoy your feast, then. I'll be guarding the brandy." Cian sniped and Brocc couldn't help the little rise of jealousy. Of course, his little brother would try to best him.

Stubbornly, Brocc turned and marched off towards the badger, intent on having the finest breakfast a wolf could possibly get in this frozen wasteland. He made it only a few yards and then food was the last thing on his mind.

The ground trembled, bucked, and jerked. Roaring, louder and louder, filled his ears and he had only a glimpse of his brother's widening eyes over his shoulder before the world was instantly white.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Brocc twitched his ears. Was he dead?

Everything was so bright. And cold.

His right paw pushed against something hard.

Breathe in.

He shook his head and suddenly he saw blue.

And then suddenly there were noises. Hollering. shouting.

Why was everything so bright?

Breathe out.

Something pulled at his body and all pressure was gone.

"I've got another one!" The voice was deep and familiar.

A fuzzy face entered his view. "Brocc? You hale?"

"R-right as rain." He stuttered. Not dead, then. If he was, Sergeant Albion certainly wouldn't be there. He'd survived the Witch's wand. Sometimes the troops wondered if anything could kill him.

"Get him some blankets!" The sergeant handed him off.

Panicking, Brocc straightened. "Cian? Have ye found Cian? He was just behind me, near the base of the cliff."

The sergeant paused only a moment. "Make sure he's not caught the stiffs." He spoke to someone behind Brocc.

"Oi!" Brocc tried to protest but he was carried away with little more than weak protest. His muscles were still not cooperating as he thought they should.

"Calm down. It'll all be righted soon." Faces, voices melded together. Fingers and paws brushed at his legs and tail, checking that his bones were in place. A wrinkled dwarf listened to his heartbeat and directed another of his kin to fetch some broth.

It was only when Brocc was halfway through his cup of barely warm vegetable broth that things began to become clear.

An avalanche. There had been an avalanche. Snow drifts taller than trees piled around them, soldiers scrambled about, and officers hollered orders.

Brocc had been deposited in some sort of impromptu infirmary and to his right there was a long row of groaning creatures, some wide-eyed and frozen in shock, others clutching appendages bent in unnatural angles.

Ahead of them and around a newly created hill, soldiers scraped at the snow banks with shovels, plates, buckets or even their bare paws. Occasionally, there was a great cry and another creature would be carried over.

But none of them were his brother.

"Oi, you!" Brocc hollered at a faun scrambling past, a wooden bowl of water in his hands. "I'm better and I'll be leaving."

The faun paused only to collect the half-consumed cup before scampering off, calling over his shoulder, "remember not to overexert yourself, thank you and good day."

He raised his eyebrows for a moment and then moved off as quickly as he could before the faun changed his mind. His legs were still shaky and the world dipped and swayed slightly at times but he made it to the snow banks without incident.

The cliff side was entirely different than he remembered. If he hadn't spent the night, unhappily dreaming under the icy precipice, he would have said they had camped elsewhere entirely.

After several moments of intense study he found a few things he recognized. The overhang under where Cian had slept was missing entirely and a choppy white blanket covered the ground in more feet of snow than Brocc could guess.

Snow that was burying his brother.

Horror seized his heart and he tumbled up the slippery hill, paws digging and scraping as fast as he could manage, joining the ranks of other furiously working animals.

Brocc's mind went blank, all his willpower and energy spent moving snow away, eyes straining for that glimpse of ash-colored fur.

He had to be here. He was just here…

Nothing.

He turned a little to the right and continued burrowing, muscles beginning to ache and burn.

Still nothing.

He paused, throwing up his gaze and glancing about. Maybe he'd read the landscape wrong.

About him, others were breathing heavily with exertion, faces red and damp with sweat, tongues lolling about as they worked. Two rows down Brocc saw something that for a moment cleared his head of thoughts of Cian.

The two young Kings were working away with the rest of the envoy.

The dark-haired one, King Edmund, had two scarves wrapped about his hands and was using them together to haul out great scoops of snow and ice. High King Peter, the yellow-haired one, was using a shovel to hack apart the larger pieces for his brother to move away.

Their shoulders were tense and eyes determined. Occasionally they coughed roughly, stopping only once to retrieve the flask Brocc had seen the night before and taking a bitter sip. They spoke as they worked. Or rather bickered.

Brocc wouldn't have cared a twit about their topic of conversation but he thought Cian might be further down the line so he shifted closer and restarted digging, the Kings' words easily drifting over the cold air to his weary ears.

King Edmund sounded exhausted and thoroughly displeased with his sibling. "I'm not…puffing. That's your great gasps for air…that you're hearing."

The High King didn't seem to be a much different state. "Just shut it…would you?"

"Excellent…riposte, Pete. Really, inspiring." King Edmund stopped for a brief moment to readjust the scarves about his fingers. "What an orator you've become."

"And you've…become a stubborn old mule," High King Peter's voice changed pitch for an instant as he lifted a particularly large chuck of ice away, "now keep digging."

"You keep digging."

The High King let out a short, harsh laugh. "Now who's the orator?"

And so it continued.

Brocc's frenzied scrapes at the immovable snow drift gradually slowed as his chest burned to keep oxygen in his veins. All too soon not even the Kings' acidic bickering could keep his mind off the pain in his paws and the growing dread in his heart.

How long could Cian survive under all that snow? What if he wasn't…what was he to tell their mum?

Brocc gritted his teeth and pushed harder.

It couldn't have been more than an hour later, though Brocc really couldn't be sure as each moment thrummed horribly in his head and seemed an age, when the general approached the Kings.

They conversed quietly for a moment and all three looked as though they'd bitten into particularly bad apple. A sickening feeling slid through Brocc's consciousness and he stopped to watch.

High King Peter leaned heavily on his shovel. "And what was the count?"

"Three, your majesties."

"Can you be sure?" King Edmund's eyes were darker than he'd ever seen them.

The general nodded.

"What are the odds that they're still…" King Edmund trailed off, a side glance thrown to the soldiers working about them.

"Slim…my lords, very slim. It's been almost two hours already."

"How much longer can we afford to stay?" King Peter pressed.

"The griffons report a wind is picking back up."

And it was true, Brocc now felt the breeze pulling at the fur on his back.

"The wind and the weight of the snowfall are likely what triggered the first. If there was a second snowfall or another bout of strong wind we could suffer another…" the general spoke quietly and Brocc could scarcely make out the words now. "This ground is already rife with instability…too steep for the snow to settle. We'd lose more than three."

The Kings' stared long and hard at each other and then the snow bank.

"We could trigger another at any moment." The general took a breath, "I strongly suggest an immediate retreat to safer grounds, especially for your majesties."

Brocc felt his chest go rigid and his eyes froze on the Kings faces.

They seemed just as immobile as he. Indecision skittered through their eyes.

Too long, the pause was too long. They would leave and Cian would be left alone to die. Brocc's joints grew weak and he was stumbling down the bank before he could manage another thought. "Majesties…"

The trio's attention snapped to him and, were he a lesser wolf, he would have backed away. But the last glimpse of his brother flashed through his mind and the words tumbled free without any provocation. "The missing soldiers….it's me brother…he's still lost…just a touch more time."

Their faces remained impassive.

Aching weariness, bone-numbing cold, raw desperation, a last hope spoke, "Please. He's me twin."

Finally there was a fissure in the marble façade of the Kings' faces. Another silent conference communicated through a simple look and it was the High King that answered. "Alright. We'll keep looking."

A great gasp of air left Brocc in a whoosh of relief. "Thank ye, your majesties."

"Don't…don't thank us." High King Peter looked pained but Brocc had no more time to ponder what he could mean as the monarch returned to digging, twice as vigorously as before.

King Edmund was right at his side, shoving the snow away as quickly as his brother. It was as if something between them had begun to clear as their motions complimented the others and their work became that much more effective.

The hours grew longer and still they dug. Great boulders of snow were cleared away, still more hiding the survivors away. Twice the workers were called away as the snow trembled and Brocc thought they had triggered another avalanche but when the snow stayed mostly intact, Brocc scrambled back to his position and began scrabbling away with paws.

The two Kings were only just behind him, much to the general's consternation.

Despair was at last beginning to pull at his shoulders. His head was sagging, whiskers catching on the snowflakes as he pushed out one scoop at a time.

One last survivor had been found some time ago but Cian remained lost. The sun was dipping and the general feared another storm. Only moments were left before the troops would need to use what strength they had left and re-pitch the shreds of their camp at a safer location.

At first, Brocc didn't hear the cries, didn't see the swarming of soldiers around a large boulder, newly uncovered.

It wasn't until a survivor was sprawling out in the fresh, icy air that Brocc realized something had changed and then he was barreling forwards, colliding with bodies and slipping on snow.

"Cian!"

"Brocc?" his brother's voice was weak, frighteningly so, but it was there.

Two dwarves from the infirmary were sliding him from a shallow hole behind the boulder. His left hind leg was twisted sharply as it never should have been.

But he was breathing.

He was speaking and he was breathing.

"Ye stupid…" Brocc's lungs ceased drawing in air for a moment, "stupid pup, I thought I'd seen the last of ye."

"And let ye have the brandy?" Cian's eyes were barely open and glazed with pain.

Brocc near collapsed with weak laughter.

A crude stretcher was brought and his brother was gently lifted on. Brocc followed, utterly grateful and drained. He would have never looked back at the piles of snow but for the stray thought that the monarchs weren't such a bad lot after all. A small sliver of curiosity pricked him and he threw a quick look towards them.

The two Kings were watching their envoy move to safety, strange expressions on their features.

High King Peter scratched awkwardly at his ear and then thrust a hand out towards his brother, palm open.

King Edmund didn't hesitate before taking the proffered hand and shaking it once firmly.

Nothing was said. They merely turned to follow their subjects.

A beat later King Edmund stepped quickly to the side and gave his brother a quick shove, sending him stumbling a few feet over the snow.

There was a lightning fast counter-shove and King Edmund was sent in the opposing direction. Smirking in a satisfied way, they both threw their hands deep in their pockets and trudged on.

**A/N:** For those interested, the fictional avalanche was caused by heavy snow downfall, strong winds creating an overhang, and the sharp gradient of the cliff side. In other words, in a spring snow storm, don't camp beneath an overhang because the weight of the snow itself will cause an avalanche.


	16. Lady

Hey guys, first off, I'm so incredibly sorry it took me a whole year to get this chapter up (and what a short chapter, too). Life has been crazy and, unfortunately, it doesn't look as though it'll be lightening up anytime soon. This series is such a delight to write and I'll do what I can to occasionally post (especially since I'm fleshing out more of the over-arching plot in the next few planned but unwritten chapters). Thank you so very, very, very, VERY much for being so supportive and amazing!

Thanks to all reviewers! You make me so happy! WilliowDryad, WWD, doggirllyn, CountryPixie, rosebudmelissa, Roletti, rainpaint, peanutmeg, Petiib, Autumnia, Eregnar, LunaNigra, audrey, where the wind blows, Eavis, FelipeMarcusThomas, and anyone else I've probably forgotten, you are wonderful!

Also, we've crossed the 200 review mark everybody! Round of applause for yourselves and your awesome reviews! I'd give out something fabulous but I haven't anything fabulous to give...sorry.

All that said, enjoy!

Chapter 16: Lady

She supposed they looked as any Sons of Adams did. She'd seen such 'men' in Calomene before and they hadn't impressed her then either.

So very small and fragile with their tender little limbs and tiny hands. Why their swords, if one could call such pins that, could serve as a toothpick for her husband.

Lady Ameorla, indeed, was not impressed.

The Narnians had arrived in the capitol city of Ettin in a most bedraggled state, supplies half-destroyed, and uniforms sodden and torn. If the journey to Ettin could reduce the famed Narnians to so low a state then what would a fully armed and blood-thirsty horde of her countrymen to do such rabble?

Ameorla was one her more educated counterparts. She knew as much from the first time she entered the high circles of Ettin society after her marriage to Lord Brotus. She also knew, from those same studies, that this pitiful group of Narnian soldiers with their Kings and Queens had been widely renowned for their defeat of the White Witch.

The general public of Ettin did not trust them all the more for that and held the Narnians at a suspicious distance. The White Witch had visited only once and the children of Ettin still shuddered at the mention of her name. Such cold eyes…some said the mere look of them could turn one to stone.

Ameorla had read the reports of the battle with some skepticism. Books were rare, exceedingly so, but her husband's position afforded a few. More common were the transactions of tales for coin or good strong ale. As she quickly found, conflicts rarely had the numbers drunken egos boasted them to have. She was, however, intrigued. Little was there for her to do in her new home other than gossip and gorge oneself on wild boar and red apples. Such consistent awe over the naïve Narnian forces and their victory that Ameorla could not help her wonder what exactly had happened at the Battle of Beruna.

Another advantage to having a Lord for a husband was the access to formal events such as negotiations. Her husband had been summoned from their modest village at the base of the mountains nearly three days prior to join in open negotiations with the other lords of Ettin and the sovereigns of Narnia.

Lord Brotus was not the most intelligent of giants but he was kind and loathed being from her side longer than absolutely necessary. So, she had been allowed to accompany him and was present in the wide dirt courtyard when the two Kings of Narnia had ridden through the wooden and bronze stockade.

As she remembered them now, near faint with weariness and hunger, she knew that some piece of the puzzle was missing. They could only be withholding their full clout. They must have had a powerful weapon of some sort hidden away.

The blond haired child with his brother at his elbow, both stumbling with fatigue, could not have faced the White Witch on an open battlefield and won.

A slight winter storm, as their tale was told, had nearly defeated them singlehandedly and the White Witch was so much more powerful…Ameolra brushed off the chill raking down her limbs.

She stood now behind an enormous wooden table, her husband, the other lords, and the two Kings seated before her. Terse silence reigned supreme as the Lords ran their thick fingers over their beards and the two Kings kept a white-knuckled grip on the pommel of their swords.

At long last, King Edmund, the younger of the Kings, cleared his throat uneasily and spoke in a surprisingly deep voice for a person so small, "As a King of Narnia, I propose we begin discussions on the cessation of conflict between our two sovereign states."

"I second the motion." The older, High King Peter, spoke next.

A wry set of looks passed between the twelve Lords of Ettin. Lord Brotus breached their thoughts. "Then let the pleasantries commence."

King Edmund looked surprised for the briefest of moments, so brief in fact that Ameorla thought she might have imagined it, and was again composed. "Excellent."

"First, we should like a few wrongs to be righted."

Ameorla felt a blush of pride spread over her cheeks as her husband spoke. He had been listening to her reading at night after all.

High King Peter opened his mouth and, at a nudge from his brother, snapped it shut again.

"Go on." King Edmund encouraged. "We're listening."

"We have been unduly vilified, unjustly attacked, viciously misperceived."

Ameorla's good humor would not be dampened, even if her darling husband had repeated himself. Perhaps he had really managed to stay awake through "The Compendium of Governmental Affairs".

"How so?" High King Peter desperately looked as though he wanted to cross his arms across his chest but instead clenched his fist tighter around his sword.

Lord Clymeran pitched in now. "The patrols, the attacks, the slanderousings of our good names."

Here Ameorla couldn't help it. She winced. Maintaining a level of intelligence was not Clymeran's strong suit.

High King Peter, even with his brother's hand firmly clasped to his shoulder, rigidly pried his hand from his sword and extended it viciously towards the Lords of Ettin. "The attacks? The slandering of your good names? What you misperceive as attacks are the defensive actions of border towns under siege from plundering Ettins. The patrols were to further defend the defenseless. As for your names, you have done that yourself by tearing food and supplies from women and children."

"We were claiming what was ours! Those lands were grazing pastures for more years than you've been alive, infant of Adam!" Lord Ronfir threw back his chair, red-faced.

High King Peter flew to his feet only a beat later. "I have not come thirty leagues to debate the murder of children!"

A roar of anger tore through Ameorla's countrymen and the table shook under their pounding fists. Curiously, only King Edmund remained seated. One hand held his forehead and a strange half-pained and half-amused look covered his face.

In that moment, she thought she may found one of like mind—if he had not been a Narnian, that is.

And then perhaps the most curious thing of all happened. King Edmund's expression changed, his shoulders broadening and an inexplicable strength welled deep in his chest. "Excuse me."

The room drifted into silence, sentences dropping off into oblivion unfinished and suddenly forgotten.

"I believe what my brother means to say is this…" King Edmund rose slowly to his feet, hands spread wide across the table and dark eyes flinty as he stared deep into the Ettin faces. "We've come to hear your grievances and expect the same decency in return. If anything can be done to rectify those grievances, all effort should be so made. While we are guests in your land, we would like to hear what you would claim as complaints before we would speak." His left hand rose smoothly and clamped down hard on his brother's upper arm. "If you please, speak. We listen." And then he firmly yanked down, and then both Kings were suddenly sitting.

Shock reverberated around the room. Only High King Peter remained unaffected. He, instead, looked as though he had eaten something bitter, his jaw tight and fingers blanched white in tight fists.

"The…the…" Lord Brotus cleared his throat and fumbled with his wiry beard. "The trespassing on the land of our forebears is a chief concern. Also among our grievances, we require cessation," Ameorla would later ponder that her husband had always learned quickly if not often, "of violence upon our persons whilst traveling in Narnian lands due to archaic suspicions of our race."

King Edmund's hand tightened and King Peter's jaw did the same, his lips thinning.

Graciously, King Edmund inclined his head and said, "We shall address those matters the moment we return."

High King Peter leaned slightly in his chair, head inclining towards his brother and he spoke. The words were spoken so quietly that Ameorla was likely the only one besides King Edmund that heard them. She would later reflect that the low volume was likely for the best. "Ed, I swear, if you interrupt me one more time, not even Su will be able to keep you from bodily harm."

"Very well." Her husband blinked. "Excellent."

"What be your complaints, little Kings?" Lord Typhos looked at them shrewdly, staring down the wide, mottled expanse of his nose.

"Our complaints are these." High King Peter firmly detached his brother's hand and regained his feet. "That you cease claiming Narnian property as your own. That you cease attacking peaceful villages without provocation. And that you recognize Narnia as a sovereign nation."

"What peaceful villages? None of our people have attacked you without right good cause!"

"Eldoris, Iilba, I could name a dozen other towns that were plundered by a band of giants along our Northern Border."

Ameorla's eyes came to rest on Lord Pelios, the southernmost leader and therefore the ruler of the disputed territory. He looked puzzled. "My boys have not attacked anyone there. Haven't attacked anything short of three months' time."

"There, you see! The Narnians lie!" Lord Clymeran's voice was grating and nervous. "They wish a fight!"

"We do not wish a fight." King Edmund assured them emphatically.

And just as emphatically High King Peter added, "though we wouldn't run from one either."

Thankfully, the lords ignored this last comment and instead murmured quietly to each other, shaking their heads and raking at their beards.

Lord Brotus cleared his throat loudly. "We must speak on these things. I suggest the Narnians adjourn for refreshment whilst we discuss the matters at hand."

For the first time, King Edmund looked as displeased as his brother but he held his tongue considerably better than his elder. He stood, bowed stiffly, and pulled his furious brother as graciously as possible from the room.

Lord Brotus turned to Ameorla. "My beautiful one, would you see that food is brought to them?"

"Of course." She kissed his hand, as was custom, and, as custom, he kissed her forehead in return.

She swept from the room in all her finery, the wildflowers threaded through her hair still clinging proudly to their shape and color even after the hours shut away in the warm council chambers.

At the onset of her marriage, she would have been irritated to miss the discussion but she knew better by now. Her husband had a better mind for strategy than his peers. Tongues moved more freely when food and wine were set before them. They desperately needed to know if these Narnians were sincere and a few fully bellies might just give them the answer they required.

Maids would escort the two Kings to the Great Hall and Ameorla, under the pretense of fetching food, would listen and, later, report what secrets had been unveiled in the faux privacy. Settling into a dark corner, she waited as the sons of Adam were seated and food was brought.

At long last, the room grew silent as the echo of the maids' steps retreated and the brothers spoke.

"Perhaps I should attend the next negotiation alone, Pete." The younger King sounded old, older than the worn wood under her feet.

King Peter, paradoxically, sounded as young and insulted as a filly proudly tramping around the spring fields. "And have them see you alone? I don't think so. I'll not have us look weak. We're already despised enough."

"Then learn to keep your tongue behind your teeth. You're making our job bloody difficult with all your masked insults and I, for one, want to return to Cair Paravel without becoming a giant's appetizer."

Ameorla couldn't help the inborn reflex to protect her people's insulted pride from surging through her blood. Why, they hadn't eaten the flesh of a Calmorene for at least sixty years.

"Fine." King Peter slouched back and then with a wicked gleam to his eye said, "I'll endeavor to discontinue the slanderousings of our good name."

A snort, from King Edmund, flickered 'round the hall. "You've only proven my point. Negotiation is more like chess than a match at the lists. You've got to use finesse."

"Finesse? I've got bloody finesse."

"Clearly not."

"Well, it's not like they've got finesse."

"Perhaps not, but a few of them…they're clever, Pete, and they care for their people as much as you or I. A meeting point will be found, but only if you stop being so bull-headed."

Silence reigned and for a moment Ameorla thought there would be no more discussion and then King Peter added, "I'll not have our people slighted."

"They won't be. But neither will the people of Ettin."

"But-"

King Edmund's voice was surprisingly soft as he cut his brother off. "Just trust me, Pete. I've got this."

At that, Ameorla stood, stretching her stiff limbs indulgently, and strode down the hallway. A smile curled at her lips. Her duty was complete.

Although, the two young Kings might be the size of kittens, if the High King trusted his younger brother, well, perhaps they could trust him, too. After all, she of all people would understand the utter indispensability of a dependable advisor.


End file.
